


Half Knot

by antioedipus



Category: Tokyo Mew Mew
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Poor Life Choices, References to Depression, Romance, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antioedipus/pseuds/antioedipus
Summary: Why other people?“So why did you sit here?” Zakuro puts a fry into her mouth. Minto sips her wine. From one of her idol magazines, Minto knows how many languages Zakuro speaks: six, and they are Japanese, Chinese, English, French, German, Spanish. She has known this since she was eleven. But she can never tell the meaning of Zakuro’s words. She is enigmatic. Always has been.Minto wants to prove that she's changed and Zakuro wants to prove that she isn't cold.
Relationships: Aizawa Mint/Fujiwara Zakuro
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. Chignon

“then I watch your petal fold”

Mac Miller, “God is Fair, Sexy, Nasty

_Is change possible?_ It is a question that Zakuro asks herself every day. She sits over her laptop, hunched over like a troll, grading papers. None of them are very good. She sighs, and rubs her eyes after reading a particularly dumb sentence, added simply to meet the word count. Sometimes, she wonders if some of her students mistake her aloof demeanour for stupidity.

She moved back to Tokyo a few months ago, back after deciding to change her life and leave modelling behind for the ivory tower. Money was no object, and her parents had wanted a child to brag about, so she did the Oxbridge thing for her BA and PhD in philosophy, and here she is. She wanted to find a life with meaning, but that is only because being a model was so boring. All you really do is sit there and embody what the consumer wants before they know they want it. Once you figure it out, there is nothing else to learn.

The pay cut wasn’t even a big deal. Zakuro had saved most of her money anyway. Despite their estrangement, her parents never took her trust fund away; probably because they didn’t want their accountant to know how petty they really are, but whatever.

The truth is that Zakuro feels guilty about her privilege, in a lot of ways. Academia is still a place obsessed with pedigree, and she knew her employment situation would be much worse if she weren’t as pretty as she is or hadn’t gone to the kind of schools she had gone to. Being twenty-eight and unpublished should be a strike against her, but so far, they posed no threat to her career prospects.

The point in all of this is that while she would like to think that she has changed, and that she is working to actively make the world a better place, she doesn’t really know how, because she has never considered other people to be particularly important. It’s more a case of she wants the world to be better than she being a humanitarian. For Zakuro, a world that isn’t generated by the despotic forces of imperialism, fascism, capitalism, racism and sexism would simply be a more efficient place.

So, maybe she hasn’t changed after all. Not much, anyway.

**

Bu-Ling eats like a monster. Her mouth is open, she puts more food in her mouth before she swallows, and she talks with her mouth full. If asked, Zakuro would say that she reminds her of the eponymous hero of _Naruto_ , a dumb show that she watches for the nostalgia. Bu-Ling is all unbridled energy with a lack of focus. She is an entertainer, first and foremost.

Two years ago, when Bu-Ling first started dancing at a local strip club, Zakuro had been worried for her. But it appears to be a natural fit for Bu-Ling, who loves the money and the attention. Zakuro is self-conscious of their class difference. She even offered to help pay for Bu-Ling go to university, but she refused it. She isn’t interested in school, and she would only be doing it to make Zakuro feel better. She makes a point of never asking for money unless she needs it, and Zakuro knows that is only because she works to support her siblings as well. So, the least Zakuro can do is cover the check when it inevitably comes.

She can’t help it; Bu-Ling is her favourite of all their friends. Zakuro still wears the purple friendship bracelet that she made for her when Bu-Ling was twelve and Zakuro was eighteen. It’s purple, and Zakuro has added a clasp and layer on clear nail polish, in a hope to preserve it. Bu-Ling always insults her over this: _the point is that our friendship goes on, even after this bracelet falls away_. But Zakuro has problems letting go.

Retasu’s table manners are better, but they are nothing compared to Zakuro’s. She is still soft-spoken and unable to ask for what she really wants. She works as a therapist, which is ironic, since she was heavily bullied and lived without adequate boundaries for so long. At least she knows what she is talking about with her clients. It’s probably better than a well-adjusted person becoming a therapist and spending all their time explaining the obvious to the keenly aware, unable to accept that people in the throes of existential despair and mental illness can’t really help who they are.

Their powers are long gone, but they all still have their marks and pendants, vestiges of their time as superheroes. Zakuro always keeps her pendant on her, for the just-in-case that will never come. She misses her inner wolf. She got to telepathically communicate with dogs. It was fun.

By all means, they should have scattered, but Ichigo and Berry wouldn’t let them. So now, they all meet up when they can. Ringo, Retasu and Bu-Ling never left Tokyo, and Zakuro would see Berry and Ichigo abroad. The only one she avoids is Minto, for reasons that are a mystery to everyone but Zakuro.

For all her frustration with her students, Zakuro enjoys bragging about them. It’s because they finally give her life meaning. Modelling left her quiet, empty and blank. Bu-Ling taps an acrylic nail on the table, bored, while Rekasu listens patiently, as always.

“Okay, I’m glad your students are making you happy or whatever, but have you met a special someone?” Bu-Ling bats her eyelashes, and Zakuro momentarily forgets that she flirts for a living, she is that smooth. “I’ll go first: I’m seeing someone new.”

“If it’s a man, I’m guessing he is the same kind of asshole you always go for,” Zakuro smirks, sipping her drink. Bu-Ling frowns.

“Nope, he is completely different.”

“Oh, does he have his own apartment?” Zakuro asks. Bu-Ling has a type: users.

“Yes, he does and he hasn’t asked to borrow any money—he pays for all our dates!” Bu-Ling exclaims. Zakuro smiles.

“I’m glad we raised the bar.” Zakuro says coolly, and she can tell that if not for Retasu, Bu-Ling would be giving her a piece of her mind.

“Well, are either of you seeing someone?” Bu-Ling asks, trying to hide her frustration. Zakuro and Retasu both shake their heads.

Retasu is celibate; all the bullying took a toll. They didn’t find her soon enough, a thing that Zakuro knows they all feel collective guilt over. As for Zakuro, well, she doesn’t really do relationships. Growing up, she never hid her sexuality so much as her friends never considered anything but heterosexuality. Keiichiro would just give her a knowing look whenever she checked out a cute girl at the café.

“You two need to fall in love! Look at Masaya and Ichigo! They met as kids and look at them—they are getting married in seven months.” Bu-Ling is a dreamer, and one of those dreams is that falling in love will change your life. Retasu shifts in her seat, while Zakuro shrugs. “We should all bring dates.”

“Why? We’re all in the bridal party.” Zakuro is planning on spending most of her time drinking with Ryou. She thinks large bridal parties are stupid and ought to be banned.

“Because,” Bu-Ling says, “Ichigo wants to know that none of us will end up alone.”

“That’s juvenile,” Zakuro flips her hair over her shoulder.

“No, it’s romantic.” Bu-Ling counters. Sensing they won’t agree on this, Retasu changes the subject.

“Minto moved back to Tokyo. She is a curator at an art gallery.” she says, “we are going to go get lunch on Tuesday. You two should come.” Bu-Ling gets an excited look in her eyes, while Zakuro internally groans. Minto has always disgusted her a little; as a child, she was spoiled and lazy, with an annoying crush on Zakuro. They were never going to be friends.

“I am sure that she is as vacuous as ever,” Zakuro sips her drink. Bu-Ling, sensing an opportunity to needle Zakuro, smirks.

“But you have to admit that she is your type.” Her smile is downright evil, so Zakuro responds with a shrug. She won’t deny that the women she has dated in the past are a lot like Minto: privileged, spoiled, lazy. Zakuro is trying to change, and by that, she means dating a different kind of person.

“Not anymore,” she replies. Bu-Ling rolls her eyes while Retasu sips her wine.

“You need to accept that you and Minto are from the same place. What are you going to do, come to the club and pick up a stripper and change her life?” Bu-Ling asks. Zakuro, once again, shrugs with indifference.

“I could.”

“No one wants to be a charity case, and no one likes a rich person who tries to act like they aren’t rich. It’s not cute, and it doesn’t make you likable or complex,” Bu-Ling gets right up in Zakuro’s face, but she is used to it. It is how Bu-Ling makes her points. “No one hates you for having privilege, they hate the system that creates it. It isn’t about you at all.”

“So, your saying that you like me for my money.” Zakuro drawls. Bu-Ling cackles.

“Exactly.”

Retasu sighs, and changes the subject. Zakuro winks at Bu-Ling, who gobbles it up like a secret.

**

When she got dressed this morning, Minto did it knowing that she would be getting lunch with Ichigo. Their friendship thrives on her being the cool, sophisticated one, while Ichigo is the cute, approachable one. She wears a silk wrap blouse with bell sleeves, and a dark crepe pencil skirt. She chooses a low heel, a practical shoe.

Minto quit dancing after her dog Mickey died. It was impossible in a world without him. It’s lame, but his death sent her into a deep depression that lasted several years and resisted all treatment. She is getting out of it now, but that is simply because the cycle is over. It will come back. Of this, she is certain.

To compensate for her lack of physical activity, Minto eats very little and walks everywhere. It is the only reason that she has nice legs. Giving up the chauffeur was an act of humility that had an unexpected side effect of helping Minto keep the weight off.

She has been a bad friend lately. Ichigo and Retasu are the only ones she made time for. Everyone else fell off the map. Ichigo insisted they try this new café, and looking at the menu, Minto can tell she won’t like the food. Well, it’s not that she won’t like it so much as it isn’t her favourite. She misses the kind of food she could buy in France, but she has grown out of the bratty habit of pointing out how much better everything is over there.

Engagement has made Ichigo even bubblier. It kind of sickens Minto. Her ring is obnoxious, too big for her small finger. Masaya bought it at an estate sale, so it probably sat on an old woman’s gnarled finger over the last few years. Besides, a blood diamond is still a blood diamond, even if it is second hand.

Masaya and Ichigo work in conservation; together, they are going to save the world. Minto thinks it is boring and passé, but who is she to rain all over Ichigo’s parade?

“Minto,” Ichigo says, “I have a favour to ask.”

“Ask away,” she replies. Ichigo smiles and takes one of Minto’s hands in her own. Minto wants to ask if she is proposing to her, _because in that case_ , the answer will always be a firm _no_. She doesn’t, because she wants to be a good person.

“Will you be my Maid of Honour?” she asks. Minto blinks.

“Of course,” she replies, for reasons beyond her comprehension. She is the most logical choice, she supposes. She loves planning parties and telling Ichigo what to do.

Ichigo wiggles with excitement, and Minto smiles, until it strikes her that she will have to be the one to contact all their friends. She bites her lip, and Ichigo tilts her head.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that,” Minto replies, “it’s just that I have to contact all our friends.”

“So?” Ichigo says, like it isn’t the easiest thing in the world. It’s not fair, how likable she is.

“So? I haven’t spoken to them in a long time. What if they don’t want to hear from me?” Minto asks. Ichigo rolls her eyes, dismissing the thought like it is the stupidest thing in the world.

“I am sure they want to hear from you, they are probably worried about you,” she smiles, “we all love you, you know.”

Minto smiles politely. She doesn’t agree. All their friends love Ichigo, and will go with whatever she says. _I’m the most unlikable girl in the world_ , she thinks to herself, as Ichigo orders for both of them.

**

Every so often, Zakuro and Ryou decide to meet and get absolutely wasted. She loves him only second to Bu-Ling, and she was the only girl, out of all the Mews, that he truly befriended. She asked him why, and he replies it’s _because you are the most complex_. By that, he meant that she was the right age and neither of them were ever interested in fucking the other. It works.

He is probably her most functional relationship aside from Bu-Ling. They are getting drunk because she finally told him that Ichigo is engaged. He is still in love with her, for reasons that escape Zakuro. She judges him for having fallen for Ichigo, but as the years go by and the love endures, she judges him less and less. That said, she has never been able to understand why men lose their minds over Ichigo. She is pretty, but not the kind of girl you never move on from. But then again, Zakuro has never met a woman she couldn’t leave.

Ryou frowns into his third beer, and Zakuro decides to try and rescue their night.

“You know why I like being a lesbian?” she asks. Ryou smirks.

“Do tell,” he drawls.

“Because I get out of the heteronormative script of being with the same guy for so long that I have to convince myself that he is my soulmate, simply to justify all that time I’ve spent with him.” She smiles when Ryou laughs.

“I can’t wait to find the girl who will delude herself into being my soulmate.” He replies. Zakuro smirks.

“You probably won’t even marry the next one. She will simply be the girl you won’t get over, who the girl you actually marry will always resent.” Zakuro sips her drink. “Bonus points if you invite her to your wedding.”

“You are such a cynic,” he says, “I like it.”

“I know,” she smiles primly.

Ryou pauses and scratches his jaw. “Do you really think people can’t make the right decision the first time?” he asks. Zakuro shrugs.

“I just don’t believe that love is anything more than choosing a person to build something with. There are no grand designs or fates or destinies or soulmates.” She grins at him.

“That sounds harsh,” he replies. Zakuro has no time to baby a man’s ego, even in the case of Ryou.

“It is a freeing realization.” She says, “and freedom comes with the price of accepting that you are in charge of your fate.”

“To freedom!” He lifts his glass lazily. She clinks hers against his, just to be polite.

**

She loathes people, but Zakuro likes working in bars. She will set up her computer and nurse a beer while she writes, pretending she is someone important. Well, she used to be an idol, so she supposes she was someone important. But she means important like a writer or a philosopher. Someone who thought things so compelling that they changed the way people thought about their lives. It’s narcissistic, and Zakuro knows she is only here because her parents groomed her to be somebody. Funnily enough, they thought the whole idol thing was Zakuro pissing away her potential. Her mother’s exact words were: _being an idol is a vulgar enterprise_. But her parents still live in America, so they have no right to call any of her choices vulgar.

Zakuro sips on her beer, thinking about the concept of the Other. It has become an interest of hers. Perhaps it is her estranged family or her frigid demeanour, but she has yet to figure out why other people are so important. She loves her friends, of course, but she never really understood why the Other is such an important philosophical concept. So many people in her classes, harping about the importance of other people, yet, funnily enough, they were often the ones who treated other people the worst. She thought it was just a sick irony, but Zakuro has come to the depressing conclusion that people who are interested in the Other, are only interested so that they can devise ways that legitimate their cruel treatment of others.

It’s not true for the philosophers she has read, but it is true of the students around her. Ethics is a field of study for people who want to bend the rules and justify their shitty behaviour. Zakuro sips her beer and frowns. Her stomach rumbles. She wonders when her fries will get here.

Looking everywhere but the door, she doesn’t realize until it is too late that Minto has not only come into the bar, but has also taken it upon herself to sit at Zakuro’s table. She hasn’t seen Minto in years, but she looks more or less the same, just older.

Minto still wears her hair in those dumb buns on either side of her head, with some pieces hanging around her face. Zakuro still has the same haircut, but it’s just long hair with bangs. It’s a classic look. Minto is smirking at her, like she knows something that Zakuro will want to know.

They haven’t seen each other in years, despite the fact that Minto was in France and Zakuro was in England. They could have seen each other, if either of them wanted to. Zakuro simply didn’t have any interest. She doesn’t really care why Minto made no effort.

Minto smiles at Zakuro, who is frowning at her. She expected this kind of welcome, honestly. She hasn’t been a very good friend the last few years, and Zakuro has never like her. Minto always assumed it was because of her dumb crush, but looking at Zakuro’s face, she wonders if her dislike runs deeper than the apathy of an idol meeting a crazed fan.

She spent most of her adolescence wondering if Zakuro purposefully looked away from her. She is embarrassed to be twenty-five years old and wondering if she’s ugly because Zakuro is looking at her with contempt.

Zakuro doesn’t like Minto for a lot of reasons that boil down to one: she reminds her of the kind of person her mother wanted her to be. Minto sits across from her in a blue silk dress, with delicate gold hoops in her ears, a gimmal ring on her right ring finger. She wears a pair of heels and carries a handbag. Minto is a curator at a prestigious art gallery, most likely because her father bought her the position. She does nothing to make the world a better place, unless you want to count philanthropy, which is something the rich do to feel better about the fact that they have gross amounts of money because they exploit the labour of other people. Rich people who donate to charity are the worst, because they delude themselves into thinking that they are somehow better with money, when in reality, they either inherited it or positioned themselves to make lots of money off of other people’s back. Zakuro always thought it was obnoxious that Bill Gates thinks malaria nets are what he should spend his money on, when the redistribution of his wealth could easily eradicate poverty many times over.

To be fair, Minto would probably counter that beauty makes the world a better place. But art is fundamentally a capitalist enterprise. Minto is just an “ _I like art_ ” type of girl, who uses her appreciation of art to hide how shallow she really is. Zakuro has never thought of Minto as a particularly complex person.

Minto taps her foot against the wood floor. Zakuro always liked how heels sound when they knock against wood.

“How are you, Zakuro?” Minto asks in her warm voice. Zakuro’s jaw ticks.

“I’m fine,” she replies coolly. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Minto purses her lips, and Zakuro takes some solace in disappointing her early.

“Don’t you want to know how I am?” she asks. Zakuro smirks.

“Not really,” she sips her beer.

Minto frowns. She doesn’t have a crush on Zakuro anymore, but she still wants her approval. Here is proof that growing up doesn’t magically change who you are.

“How are you?” Zakuro asks. Minto shrugs. Zakuro wonders what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss Minto’s upper lip. She wrinkles her nose for thinking something like that. Minto assumes that grimace is directed at her, so she chooses to be antagonistic.

“Full of existential despair.” Minto glances up as a waiter brings over a plate of fries. He asks her if she would like anything. She asks for white wine. The house is fine.

Zakuro tilts her head, smirking. When he leaves, she closes her computer and grins. “I never thought I would see the day where you would order the house wine.” Maybe she is more than a bratty girl. Zakuro dips a fry in ketchup and pops it into her mouth.

“I have learned to settle,” Minto declares with a certain finality. Zakuro pushes the fries towards her.

“You can have one.” She says. Minto scrunches up her nose, thinking about it. She quit dancing years ago, so she eats very little to compensate for the fact that she doesn’t exercise anymore. Zakuro, tired of waiting, decides to needle her. “Do you still hate ‘common food’? I mean, you _were_ in France for the last few years.” Minto narrows her eyes. The calories are worth sticking it to Zakuro.

She picks up a fry and dips it into ketchup, and then places it into her mouth delicately, right on the middle of her tongue. Her thumb and ring finger sit on her lower lip, and as she closes her mouth, the entire fry disappears. She held eye contact the whole time. Zakuro smirks, because she doesn’t want to let on how closely she was paying attention.

The waiter comes with her wine, and Minto relaxes. It’s easier to pretend to be sophisticated with wine in her hand.

“So why did you sit here?” Zakuro puts a fry into her mouth. Minto sips her wine. From one of her idol magazines, Minto knows how many languages Zakuro speaks: six, and they are Japanese, Chinese, English, French, German, Spanish. She has known this since she was eleven. But she can never tell the meaning of Zakuro’s words. She is enigmatic. Always has been.

“Because I wanted to tell you that I am Ichigo’s Maid of Honour.” It’s not the whole truth, but it is something she had to do. Zakuro eats another fry, and Minto wonders how she has maintained her lean figure, being an academic and all.

“That’s a choice.” Zakuro replies.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Minto sits up straight. Zakuro smiles. It’s funny that her friendship with Ichigo is where Minto draws the line at being insulted.

“It means,” she says, “that you and Ichigo haven’t changed.” Zakuro uses the kind of polite voice that, to the practiced ear, is actually quite rude.

Minto sips her wine, and frowns. “People can change.” She doesn’t know why she says this, instead of telling Zakuro to go to hell.

“Oh?” she replies.

“Yes,” Minto says, “people can change and I know because I am different.” Zakuro snorts, and puts her computer back in its case and tucks it into her tote bag. Minto notes that it is a dirty canvas, with a cartoon tiger on it. Zakuro likes to pretend she is a normal, middle-class woman. _You can’t get away from yourself either_ , Minto thinks.

“Do you still work in a dumb industry that is built by a racist, capitalist patriarchal machine?” Zakuro sips her beer. Minto makes a hissing noise.

“It isn’t dumb!” Minto exclaims. Zakuro raises an eyebrow, and decides to leave out the _if that is the adjective you have a problem with you ought to reassess your priorities_.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Zakuro takes another sip of beer. Minto crosses her arms.

“You are always so difficult.” Her voice is shrill. She makes it easy to get under her skin.

“I’m educated,” Zakuro replies, Minto doesn’t miss the glimmer in her eyes.

“You were created by the same privilege! I don’t know why you think you are better than me. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and given up all your money, or that you are unaware that academia is built by the same machine as the art world.” Minto sips her wine.

Zakuro frowns, though she is intrigued. Minto has never stood up to her. _Maybe you have changed_. She traces a circle on the countertop with the pad of her ring finger. Minto takes her silence as an opportunity to go in for the kill.

“The truth is that we are from the same place,” Minto says, “it’s gauche to pretend to be something than what you are.” Zakuro tilts her head, rubbing her jaw.

“Your parents love you,” she replies coolly. Minto instantly memorizes this fact. She doesn’t have a crush, but she is still in the habit of memorizing every bit of information Zakuro offers of herself. Yet another thing for Minto to hate about herself.

“My parents love an idea of me,” she replies, “but as you know, I’m not very lovable.” Zakuro narrows her eyes, sensing a trap. This is why she doesn’t like being vulnerable. Give an inch, people take a mile.

“Whatever,” she says, picking up another fry. Minto huffs.

“I am trying to relate to you!” Her voice isn’t loud, but it is shrill.

“You aren’t doing a good job.” Zakuro deadpans, eating another fry. Minto puffs her cheeks. Zakuro thinks it’s cute.

“You know what?” Minto says, standing up. She opens her purse and takes out her wallet, grabbing a few bills and throwing them onto the table. “I’ve changed, but you are just as cold as ever!”

Minto isn’t the first woman to accuse Zakuro of this. She is aware that she is aloof. But as Minto chugs her wine, Zakuro finds herself wanting to prove her wrong. As Minto stomps out the door, Zakuro watches the sway of her hips. She decides to do the stupid thing.

She chugs her beer and throws a few bills on the table, picking up her bag and jogging out the door to where Minto waits for a cab. Zakuro, in her practical shoes and plaid trousers, runs up to Minto, who turns around and looks at her like she had grown three heads. Maybe she has. Zakuro slows to a walk, before stopping right in front of Minto.

“I’m not cold,” she rasps. Minto feels the pull too late to prevent the inevitable. Zakuro’s lips are pink and puffy from the salt of the fries.

“Change my mind,” she says. Zakuro places her palm against Minto’s cheek, and runs her thumb along her cheekbone.

“May I kiss you?” Zakuro asks. Minto can’t believe that this is her real life, so she nods, her eyes wide and mouth open.

Zakuro knows that she will live to regret this. But at the same time, she wants to prove that she isn’t cold, just selective with who shares her warmth. Zakuro kisses Minto’s lower lip, and closes her eyes when Minto sighs into her mouth.

**

Minto follows Zakuro up to her apartment in a daze. She really didn’t think that this would ever happen to her. Making out with Zakuro in the back of a cab, humming into her mouth and enjoying the back taste of beer and fries.

Zakuro wears plaid wool pants, with a high waist and tapered leg, cropped at the ankle. She wears a black t-shirt and the kind of sandals that are strapped onto your feet. Her large tote flops against her, and Minto can’t help but feel a little bit like a kid. She is used to people fawning over her, but Zakuro doesn’t even hold her hand. It’s like she knows that Minto will just follow her.

When they get to the door and Zakuro pulls her keys out of her pocket, Minto wonders if they are even going to have sex. In her experience, the kind of kissing they were doing in the cab is usually a good sign, but Zakuro hasn’t touched her since she pulled away to pay the poor cab driver.

Zakuro pushes her door open and waves Minto in. Minto slips off her heels, and watches how Zakuro takes off her shoes by bending at the knee and lifting a foot to sit on her thigh, while she bends over, undoing the straps. Zakuro is still the most graceful person Minto has ever seen in real life, and she had been a ballerina.

When her sandals are off, Zakuro looks up with a wolfish grin, and leans over to kiss Minto as she locks the door. Minto wraps her arms around Zakuro’s waist, and she tries not to think of all the mean things they said to each other. All Minto wants is to be loved and cherished.

If she was truly committed to those goals, she wouldn’t have come here. Zakuro pulls her into the apartment, so fast that Minto backs her into the kitchen counter. Their kissing is messy but not a bit awkward. Minto puts her hand up Zakuro’s shirt, surprised to find that she is still muscled. It’s there, right under her softness. Minto pulls away, and Zakuro watches as she takes off her dress.

Minto hasn’t danced in years, but she is aware that she still moves like a ballerina. Each move is intentional from the way she puffs her chest out to the way her delicate ankles are an exact hip width apart. Zakuro doesn’t know why she has never allowed herself to think of Minto as beautiful before. She is a delicate kind of pretty, like a doll, really. Her eyes are dark and warm, and she has the kind of small, delicate features that make sense on a doll’s face.

The blue silk pools at Minto’s feet, and she stands bare before Zakuro. Minto swallows, because she didn’t put on any underwear today because it was laundry day. She didn’t think she would be doing anything like this, and she is a little embarrassed to be this prepared. Zakuro’s eyes are dark, and she begins to strip too.

The tap drips as Zakuro takes off her shirt and then unclasps her bra. After slipping it off, she unbuttons her pants and hooks her thumbs into her underwear, pulling them down in one smooth motion. She steps out, looking Minto right in the eye. Zakuro still has her little Mew Mark on her belly button. Minto wonders if she will get to kiss it.

Now that they are both naked, Zakuro sees no point in going slow. She kisses Minto’s lower lip, her jaw, down her neck down her breastbone, the plane of her stomach to the place where her thighs and hips meet. Zakuro smirks. She would have thought that Minto would keep her pubic hair as an act of rebellion. It’s the kind of passive aggressive resistance that Zakuro would expect from her, and she did live in France.

“It’s not very European to have no hair,” Zakuro says, kissing the top of Minto’s thigh. The other girl blushes.

“You lived in England, that is _barely_ Europe.” Minto growls. It makes Zakuro want to smile, but she doesn’t. She wouldn’t want to mislead her.

“You know this won’t change my mind about you, right?” Zakuro says in her flat, cool voice. Minto shrugs. She wants Zakuro’s approval but she knows that she will never get it.

“You’re trying to prove me wrong,” she says quietly. Zakuro doesn’t think that she deserves such tenderness from a girl who she essentially called spoiled and vain. Minto sighs as Zakuro parts her thighs, and puts her mouth to her. It makes her blood hot to feel Zakuro’s lips against her, and Minto spreads herself wider as Zakuro comes up from below, devouring her.

The thing about lesbian sex is that all the touching and licking and sucking isn’t relegated to foreplay. It is the main event. It’s why Minto prefers sleeping with women. The sex can go on forever, if they are both up to it. No man has the endurance of a woman.

Zakuro runs a palm up Minto’s stomach and runs her thumb over her nipple, just to see what she will do. She isn’t disappointed by the yelp she makes, so she does it again and again. Her touch is firm, confident, but her mouth is gentle until she figures out that Minto likes to feel raw. Her fingers, her mouth, it all feels like it is too much and not enough. Minto keeps rolling her hips and whining, and a part of Zakuro wants to pull out and say that she too is surprised that she wishes there was a way for her to be both inside and all over Minto, that it is a shame that she doesn’t have a mouth in the palm of her hand to swallow the noises Minto keeps making.

For her part, Minto is just trying to stay upright. She has her hands in Zakuro’s hair, and her jaw is clenched. It feels like Zakuro is trying to force her to make the ugliest sounds she possibly can, and a part of Minto doesn’t want to give her that satisfaction. But a larger, crazier part wants to make every noise possible, because Zakuro deserves to know how wrong Minto was—she isn’t cold at all, far from it.

Zakuro wonders what kind of secret she is trying to dig out of Minto. Or is it the opposite? Zakuro dismisses the thought, and recommits herself to the task at hand.

There is usually a moment, right before she comes, where Minto chooses to relax and go with it or shut off her orgasm. She doesn’t know why her brain is wired this way, but it is. No one is more surprised than she, when Zakuro pushes her up and over the edge, making the choice for her. It feels like she falling and falling, and maybe she is, but it feels so good that Minto can’t complain.

When Zakuro pulls back, she wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand. Minto thinks about moving into the bedroom, but when she looks at the desperate look on Zakuro’s face, she decides that here is as good a place as any to do something they will both regret. Minto gets down on her knees and kisses Zakuro right on her mouth, and she is pulled down as Zakuro lies back.

People have a tendency to try and make the dumbest things profound, wanting meaning where there is none to be found. Zakuro doesn’t think too much while she has sex. It takes the fun out of it, looking for meaning or clues or symbolism. It’s just bodies making each other feel good. Any meaning more complex than that, and you set yourself up for disappointment.

Luckily, Zakuro has never done that. With her tongue in Minto’s mouth and her hands tracing her sides, Zakuro thanks her parents for their emotional absence. She can’t imagine seeking the cure for loneliness in Minto. Rather, she thinks of having sex with her as a weird blip, a momentary error in judgment that just so happens to be paying off.

Minto kisses her throat, her jaw, the soft place in her clavicle. She kisses the Mew Mark on her belly, the thing which marks them for who they used to be. As she sets herself between Zakuro legs and puts her mouth against her, Minto wonders if this will be the rest of her life. She has the nasty habit of looking for love in the places where it will never exist. Nothing would ever thrive between them, this, Minto knows in her soul.

But that doesn’t stop her from trying to devour Zakuro, as if she could fit all of her into her tiny mouth. As Zakuro’s back arches, Minto places her hand over her tummy and presses her down, to keep her flat on the floor. She only has two hands and one mouth, but Minto knows that you don’t need anything else.

When Zakuro goes rigid and sucks in her breath, that is when Minto knows to go in for the metaphorical kill, chasing the “little death”, as the French would say. Zakuro clenches and makes a strangled noise, and that is how Minto knows that she has won this round. Zakuro can call her petulant, and vain, and shallow as much as she likes, but she can’t call her a bad lay. Minto sits up and doesn’t give her time to recover, slipping in a finger, then two. Her thumb rubs a circle, and her own breath hitches with Zakuro’s moans.

Zakuro sits up on her elbows, wanting to glare but being unable to. When did Minto turn the tables on her? She proved that she isn’t frigid, and it would seem that Minto wants to rub it in her face. _You aren’t cold_ , Zakuro chastises herself, _you aren’t cold at all_. She makes a keening noise, and Minto moves faster. She smirks, confident that she has the upper hand. It feels good, so Zakuro decides to embrace humility for a change. 

“You aren’t the only emotionally damaged lesbian,” Minto says in a sing-song voice.

“I never claimed to be,” Zakuro gasps. Minto shrugs.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she says dryly. As she looks down at her hands, Zakuro sees her chance.

She sits up completely, and does the one thing that could surprise Minto. She kisses her with more than she did before. She kisses her with the promise of life, hope. Minto opens her mouth in a gesture of submission, but she moves her hand faster, making Zakuro moan into her mouth. Minto wants to swallow them all, gobble them all up until there are none left. Such is her lust for Zakuro.

As Zakuro rides her hand, Minto wonders if this is even healthy. Surely, a person doesn’t jump into bed with someone who thinks they are deeply flawed. But Zakuro is beautiful, and pink, and right here, so Minto decides to stop thinking about her health. Instead, she thinks about how much fun it is going to be to smirk in Zakuro’s face, knowing she made her come on her kitchen floor. Zakuro can break her fingers or her hand; she can say the nastiest things. But she can’t undo _this_.

Zakuro feels like taunting Minto. She wants to keep her in her place. But it would seem that place is changing, because Zakuro can’t think of a better place for Minto then inside of her. It’s a harsh realization, knowing that the person you have open contempt for is also the person whose brains you want to fuck out. In Zakuro’s defense, she had never thought of doing this until a few hours ago, when Minto called her _cold_. She presses her hand to Minto’s cheek and kisses her deeper, wondering if they can break on through to the other side. Maybe they will make each other come so hard that they will finally feel nothing.

It’s what she wants most. To achieve radical nothingness without physical death. If the French call the orgasm _le petit mort_ , Zakuro figures that the only path towards enlightenment is the kind of brutal sex that kills you. So she begs Minto for _more_ , and she gets it. She doesn’t mind being clawed out, if that is what it takes to hit the peak.

When she gets there, Zakuro feels a brief second of nothing, before it all catches up to her and Zakuro sinks back into her humanity and the knowledge that it was Minto, of all people, who got her there. Zakuro looks down at her, rubbing a thumb under the purple skin of Minto’s under eye.

She kisses her softly, and winces when Minto withdraws to wrap her arms around her. “You know this won’t work out, right?” Zakuro pulls back, and looks Minto right in the eye. Any other day, Minto would have been offended. But this isn’t one of those days.

“I don’t care,” she says, kissing Zakuro back.

Zakuro finds herself wanting to look at Minto’s back, to see the Mew Mark between her shoulder blades. So she unwraps herself, despite Minto’s mewling, and scoots to kneel behind her. Zakuro presses her lips to the mark between Minto’s shoulder blades, and she feels her sigh under her mouth.

Is it over? No. It has only just begun.


	2. French Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minto and Zakuro, thinking about trying.
> 
> CW: Depression, issues with eating, mild mentions of self-harm (it is all minor, and they are not gratuitous nor are they the character's driving problem).

“What we had won’t be the same (same) now (now)”

Frank Ocean, “Dear April (Side A—Acoustic)”

Minto wears a black shift dress, with long sleeves and a white Peter Pan collar. She wears black leather mules and her legs are in black stockings. Very Wednesday Adams. She has spent the week dressing the way Zakuro makes her feel; morose. Zakuro is the only person who can make Minto feel like a nervous teenager. It’s her power.

She left the apartment as soon as she could pull herself away. Zakuro has collapsed onto her stomach, her face in the pillow. Minto took it as her cue to put her clothes on and leave. Zakuro didn’t stopped her. Minto can’t believe that she had sex with someone who has such open contempt for her. Maybe it was too soon to quit therapy. She chews the inside of her cheek.

Minto keeps thinking about texting Zakuro. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and slides it open. A few taps, and she will have the moral high ground of having reached out first. But she doesn’t think a message would be welcome. Sex doesn’t change how someone feels about you. They both came hard, but that doesn’t mean they want to talk to each other. By that, Minto means that it doesn’t mean that Zakuro wants to talk to her.

Tapping the side of her phone against the palm of her hand, she sighs. _What to do instead of hitting the self-destruct button?_ Minto slides her phone open and taps on Ichigo’s name. A ring and then another, and she hears her friend’s happy voice.

“Hi Minto,” she hears, “I was just about to call you.”

“Really?” she replies, thrilled to be wanted by someone.

“I am going to look at flowers today,” Ichigo hums, “I would love your input.”

“You need my advice,” Minto sniffs, “knowing you, you would end up paying too much money for something hideous.”

“Rude,” Ichigo retorts, and Minto laughs.

“You don’t call me because I’m nice,” she replies. Ichigo huffs.

“Look, I really need your help,” she says.

“Yes, yes. You don’t have my eye for detail.” Minto drawls.

“That’s not what I meant!” Ichigo replies, “you don’t find this kind of things overwhelming.” Minto looks at her nails. She painted them turquoise last night. Whenever she gets anxious, she is supposed to do a mind numbing, repetitive task to take the edge off. She now gives herself excellent manicures.

“I already told you I would do it,” Minto says. “I actually called you for a reason, though.”

“Oh, what?” she asks. Minto frowns out the window of her office. Lots of people and glass buildings. Generic, really. All big cities are the same, at their core.

“I had a one-night stand last week, and I want to have sex with this person again.” She says. Ichigo hums on the phone.

“Just ask them.” Ichigo always sees the world in simple terms. “They slept with you once, I am sure they will do it again.”

“This person doesn’t really like me.” Minto bites her lip and holds the phone away from her ear as Ichigo laughs.

“If they didn’t like you, they wouldn’t have slept with you,” she says, “this isn’t hard to understand.”

“Actually, it is,” Minto replies, “this person is hard to read.”

“Instead of reading people you should just ask them questions. It will save you lots of time,” Ichigo laughs to herself, “I still can’t believe you think people who don’t like each other would have sex. That’s so stupid.”

“People are stupid,” Minto sighs. Ichigo clucks her tongue, the way Minto hates.

“You are too judgmental,” Ichigo sighs. Minto shrugs, even though Ichigo can’t see it.

“I’m consistent.” Minto takes out a piece of paper and asks where and when they will be meeting to look at flowers.

As Ichigo gives her the name of the florist, Minto chews her lower lip. She doesn’t feel any closer to deciding whether or not she should text Zakuro. Even worse, she feels the creeping sense of dread that there is something dead inside her, but she chooses to dismiss this intrusive thought the way she does with all the others.

She digs her nails into her palms until it burns.

**

She has a small window in her office, but Zakuro doesn’t need a lot of light to thrive. Childhood neglect does funny things to a person, and Zakuro is no exception. She prefers being in tight, dark spaces. They make her feel safe.

She used to hide under the stairs, before her mother would drag her out and make her kiss every guest, no matter how odious, on the cheek. Zakuro was thirteen when a man older than her grandfather leered at her. Her own mother had laughed in response, like he had told a really funny joke.

Whenever she feels ashamed of being an idol, Zakuro remembers what the money allowed her to get away from. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so bad to run into people who memorized your birthday, horoscope and blood type. Her fans have nothing on the creeps her parents would hang around.

Zakuro frowns at the memory and pulls her hair into a ponytail. She rubs her jaw and looks out her tiny window. It has been a week since she had sex with Minto. Seven days since they found the truth in each other. Zakuro is still surprised that Minto made her feel good, let alone revealed a truth to her. Not even Zakuro knew how hot she could run until Minto touched her. She thumps her heel against the floor.

Whenever she thinks about last week, she chews on her lower lip. Minto had been better than good. She made Zakuro feel like a human being. She has caught herself zoning out in faculty meetings and in the middle of her research. She thinks of Minto’s dainty little Mew Mark, the way her ankles connect her feet to her legs. How she looks impossibly pretty with her hair down and face flushed.

Zakuro eyes her phone. Minto hasn’t spoken to her since, but something tells her that the silence isn’t wanted so much as she doesn’t know how to tell Zakuro that she wants to talk to her. She has been trying to remember all the reasons she detests Minto: she is spoiled, selfish, unremarkable if not for her immense privilege. But it’s hard to be a snob when Minto has not only seen her naked but has also forced Zakuro to make impossibly ugly noises. Zakuro doesn’t want to unfuck Minto. On the contrary, she would like to regain some dignity by paying back the favour.

Picking up her phone, she enters the passcode and opens her contacts. Zakuro has never texted or called Minto. She takes the lack of history as a blank slate. A fresh opportunity.

She taps the little phone button and holds the phone to her ear. It rings once, twice. Minto answers, and she sounds a little frazzled. Like she has been caught off guard.

“What do you want?” Minto sniffs. Zakuro smirks, knowing she has already won.

“To reacquaint myself with your glaring flaws,” Zakuro hums.

“You missed them that much?” Minto sounds bored. For some reason, that bothers Zakuro.

“I don’t want you to think I’m cold,” Zakuro looks out the window. She looks at all the cars in the parking lot, and the tiny people walking around. Sometimes a car alarm will go off and liven up her day.

“It’s been a week,” Minto huffs. Zakuro smiles.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Minto replies, “I can hear it in your voice.”

“You know my voice that well?” Zakuro deadpans, and she can hear Minto’s dumb little frown.

“Aren’t I supposed to be insufferable?” Minto asks.

“You made me come three times,” Zakuro says with a shrug, “I can overlook a lot if I get a few orgasms out of it.” Minto sucks in her breath, and she holds it for a moment. She feels like she has won.

“How hard did I make you come?” Minto asks quietly. Zakuro feels a little trill in her stomach. She likes the idea of Minto talking about sex in public. It turns her crank.

“ _Hard_.” Zakuro hasn’t been able to replicate it herself. She will leave that last bit out. “Do you want to see me again?”

“Is it just to see me naked?” Minto sounds bored. Zakuro smirks.

“You get to see _me_ naked,” Zakuro says, “I don’t think it is an unequal exchange.”

“I’m your equal?” Minto’s voice is full of hope. Zakuro inspects her cuticles. She has a hangnail.

“Would that convince you to let me come over tonight?” she wants to see how Minto lives. She is curious. Zakuro finds herself wanting to learn more about her.

Minto sighs into the phone, and Zakuro can hear her rub her temples. “It’s just sex?” Minto supposes that she can make time for that.

“Nothing less, nothing more.” Zakuro drawls.

“It’s the only motivation of yours that I can understand.” Minto touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Zakuro snorts.

“We all have the same motivations,” she says quietly. “Sex is the great leveller.” Minto laughs.

“We’re all the same when we’re naked, aren’t we?” she pauses. “I’ll text you my address.”

Zakuro is surprised when Minto hangs up first.

**

Ichigo hums a lot. It’s a faint buzz, the kind of habit that Minto would find contemptible in other people. Like most things, Ichigo makes things that are normally very annoying, charming. Ichigo wears a lot of pink, a colour Minto would never wear. Well, perhaps not never, considering the bridesmaids dresses Ichigo is looking at. But Minto avoids happy colours. She isn’t a cheerful person.

Minto considers the chance that there may be something dead inside her after all. As Ichigo prattles on about true love, Minto crosses her arms and considers the flowers in front of her.

“Do you think you’ll ever find love?” Ichigo asks, as Minto fingers a pink rose. Utterly pedestrian and completely Ichigo and Masaya.

“Isn’t love supposed to find you?” Minto asks. Ichigo smiles.

“C’mon, you have to put yourself out there,” she says, “did you call that person you talked about?”

“No, they called me,” Minto says, thinking about Zakuro wanting to see her naked. It makes her belly warm. She smiles to herself. Ichigo catches it.

“I told you that they like you,” Ichigo smiles, “you don’t have sex with someone you don’t like.”

“They’re cold,” she says, “but they want to prove that they are different.”

“Oh, they are trying to _woo_ you,” Ichigo grins, “even better.” Minto tilts her head. She can’t picture Zakuro doing anything to try and seduce her.

Zakuro doesn’t _try_ ; she simply does or does not. It’s why it is hard to picture her trying to seduce anyone. That requires an amount of effort that Zakuro isn’t willing to put into other people. What to wear to meet a girl who can’t be seduced? Minto wants romance. To wear outfits that are special, made of fabrics that are nice to touch. For someone to smile at her and appreciate all the effort she puts into them.

Zakuro is not that person. Minto has been trying to come to accept the _leave or live with it_ terms of their relationship. “Ichigo,” Minto says, “what do you wear when you want to get someone to _want_ to take your clothes off?” Ichigo makes a choking noise, and Minto smirks. “You have had sex, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Ichigo blushes, “but only with one person. I never had to try and convince someone to want to see me naked.” She frowns, “the feelings were always there. I never had to seduce Masaya.” Minto shrugs.

“You’re not missing anything.” Minto can count on one hand how many of her numerous entanglements actually made her feel whole. Zakuro is one of them. She wants to go the extra mile.

“Sometimes I think I am,” she says. Minto’s eyes soften and picks up a daisy.

“You aren’t alone anymore,” she says, “that’s worth something.” Ichigo perks up.

“You’re right.” She smiles, “and soon, you won’t be either!” Minto snorts.

“Soon?” she drawls. “You’re optimistic.”

“Well, why else would you sleep with someone?” Ichigo asks. She is so innocent to the ways of the world, still.

“The parts fit.” Minto shrugs, putting the daisy back in the vase. Ichigo giggles.

“That’s how it starts,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Just wait. By the time my wedding rolls around, you’ll be in love.” Minto rolls her eyes.

“Absolutely not,” she replies. Falling in love with Zakuro would be a mistake. Like, Worst Decision of All Time.

“You can’t sleep with someone more than one time and claim you are only in it for the sex,” Ichigo says in a sage manner, as if she has had sex with more than one person.

“Watch me,” Minto says.

She picks up a lily and frowns. This is the kind of flower you buy for a funeral, not a wedding. _What an ill omen_ , she thinks, _but who is it for?_ Minto isn’t a masochist, but she hopes it is for her.

**

Unsurprisingly, Minto lives in a nice building, with a doorman. He even smiles. Zakuro doesn’t smile, she simply nods at him. Her heels click on the floor. Against her better judgement, she dressed up to see Minto. Zakuro wore a pencil skirt instead of trousers, and a silk button-up blouse. She still carries her canvas tote bag, but her heels are genuine leather.

She gets on the elevator and lifts her right leg up, using the tip of her shoe to scratch the back of her leg. She checks her phone for the apartment number and turns right as she heads out of the elevator. Zakuro doesn’t bother knocking; she simply walks into the apartment. She slips her shoes off. What would make a lesser person wince makes her blink. Blisters are nothing compared to everything else she has endured.

Aren’t pearls basically the blister scabs of oysters?

Minto’s apartment has high ceilings, big windows. It has more restraint than Zakuro expected from Minto. There are bookshelves, a few framed prints, a couple family photos. Two nice couches, a coffee table, no television. The room is blue. Zakuro looks around, silent. She strains her ears, and she hears the shower going.

She walks towards the noise and opens the door to the bedroom. It is a soft white, and Minto has an obnoxiously large bed with an ornatemetal frame. Zakuro unbuttons her blouse, and places it over the railing of a frame. She does the same with her skirt. Turning to look at herself in the mirror, she considers leaving her underwear on. But Minto will already be naked and wet, and it would just be one more obstacle between her and whatever she is looking for in a girl she somewhat despises.

Zakuro puts her underwear on top of her clothes and throws her hair back over her shoulders. She pads softly to the bathroom and eases the door open. Minto hums, and it makes something in Zakuro’s chest pang. She can’t remember the last time she was intimate with someone like this, where she overheard the noises they make in the shower.

Minto’s bathroom is all white subway tile, with seafoam and azure thrown in every so often. Her shower curtain is white, with various prints of vintage scissors. Zakuro smirks; _foreshadowing_. She pads across the tile and pulls back the shower curtail. Minto jumps with a yelp, pressing her back to the tile. Zakuro blinks at her.

“You should be more careful,” she finally says, “there are some fucked up people.” Minto puffs her cheeks, trying to recover some dignity.

“Maybe I want to be murdered,” Minto stands under the shower, rinsing soap off of her arms. “Did you ever consider that?” Zakuro rolls her eyes in response.

“You wouldn’t have reacted the way you did.” She deadpans.

“How did I react?” Minto scowls.

“Like you want to live,” Zakuro replies, stepping into the shower. Minto huffs, which makes Zakuro smile. Age has made her spoiled mannerisms cute.

“Are you even going to say hi to me?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“Hi,” Zakuro deadpans.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Minto sighs.

Zakuro smirks and looks at her shampoo and conditioner. It’s the expensive stuff, the kind that doesn’t smell like a thing but a memory. Judging from the labels and the smell of the shower, Minto likes the woods. It’s something Zakuro doesn’t expect from Minto.

“Why are you standing in here?” Minto asks.

“Because I wanted to see you naked.” Zakuro shrugs, like the answer was obvious and simple.

“You expect me to read your mind, don’t you?” Minto sneers. Zakuro shrugs.

“Not exactly.” Just a maybe.

“It’s an either/or thing, Zakuro,” she drawls, standing under the shower. “And I don’t have sex in the shower unless I’m in love.” Zakuro blinks.

“Why?” she asks. People usually reserve things like anal for love. You know, stuff that can go really wrong really easily if you aren’t careful.

“Because it’s a hassle, more often than not.” Minto turns the shower off and steps out of the tub. Zakuro watches Minto towel herself off. She may be soft, but she still carries herself with the athleticism of a dancer. The body never really forgets.

Zakuro steps out of the shower and doesn’t reach for a towel. She simply walks out into the bedroom. Minto says nothing, if it bothers her. Zakuro sits on the bed, waiting for Minto to come out of the bathroom. When she does, she isn’t prepared for how it makes her feel. She has seen Minto naked, but something about the blue-black light of evening and her wet hair make her seem fragile. The kind that makes you want to take her in your arms and protect her.

She doesn’t think that Minto knows that she has this effect on people. Zakuro leans back onto her hands as Minto climbs on to her lap.

“Why did you call me?” she asks, taking Zakuro’s face in her hands.

“Because I want you,” she replies. Minto finds it infuriating, how easy Zakuro always makes the answers sound. Zakuro kisses her first, gently. The kind of kiss that give Minto the stupid hope that maybe this could be more than a fling, an act of delusion and convenience. She kisses Zakuro back, and as they fall down together, Minto allows herself to think: _this is it_.

Zakuro hums in the back of her throat. She likes the kissing, but she really came here to return the favour. She isn’t interested in her own orgasm. Zakuro kisses down the softness of Minto’s tummy, down past her belly button to the place below. Minto still isn’t able to reconcile the tenderness of Zakuro with the cold woman who says mean things to her. It’s hard to believe that they are the same person.

Minto looks up at the crack in her ceiling, her eyes wide as she squeezes the muscles between her legs and tries not to kick out. Zakuro makes up for her frigidity by giving good head. The kind of head that makes you think about how every mean word and cold look is all worth it if this is how it feels when Zakuro finally gives her attention.

It just feels so normal, like this is something they have always been doing. Minto doesn’t want to play it cool or try and maintain aloofness. She wants to jump forward to Ichigo’s wedding, when she is sure that they will be in love and Zakuro will no longer be cold and, most importantly, Minto will no longer be lonely. She puts her hand in Zakuro’s hair and thinks about how silky and pretty it is.

A girlish dream is now reality. Her stomach tightens and she feels like she is going up, up, up. Then Zakuro looks up at her and Minto releases. It is like a roar but the noise is uglier. Zakuro sits back on her heels, and blinks like a cat as Minto recovers herself. She sits up on her elbows and reaches for Zakuro, but she stays out of reach.

“Zakur- _o_ ,” Minto whines, holding out a hand. Zakuro smirks.

“Get on your stomach.” Minto frowns and rolls over.

“I hate you,” she says, “you always boss me around.”

“That’s because I know what you want better than you,” Zakuro says quietly. Minto glares over her shoulder. Zakuro offers a genuine smile and Minto forgets why she is mad.

She scoots over behind Minto and places her hand on her back. Zakuro outs her hand between Minto’s legs, and she hisses when she slides a finger in. Being inside Minto always makes her feel right, something that Zakuro chooses not to reflect upon. She presses her palm into the small of Minto’s back, and watches the way she moves against her hand.

It’s hot and to the point, and Zakuro looms over Minto’s back as if to protect her. Minto doesn’t miss that it is Zakuro’s hand who reaches for hers first, or the strangled grunts that come up from above. Minto clamps her thighs together and buries her head into the duvet, trying to stave off the inevitable. It’s not that she doesn’t want to come, she just wants to postpone Zakuro’s withdrawal. She is lonely, and she wants them both to have changed enough so that they can make this work.

Panting into the duvet dries out her mouth, and eventually Zakuro rips through her. Minto curses into the duvet, and the high is ruined when Zakuro simply pats her back and gets off of the bed. Minto lies there on her stomach, covering the back of her head with her hands. She sighs.

Zakuro pulls on her underwear, looking at Minto’s back. She looks tamed. Zakuro frowns. She honestly prefers it when Minto gives her attitude instead of lying there. She looks away from the bed to the floor, as she slips her pencil skirt over her hips.

“Do you ever feel empty?” Minto asks, rolling over onto her back. “Like, loneliness even when you aren’t alone?” Zakuro frowns. She feels that way almost every day. But she decides to lie.

“No,” she says as she puts her hands behind her back, searching for the zipper.

Minto snorts. Of course, Zakuro never admits to being lonely. It would mean that she would have to care about other people. “Do you want to stay and watch a movie?” Minto asks. She really, really doesn’t want to be alone, and she really, really, _really_ wants Zakuro to like her.

“Why?” Zakuro asks, zipping up her skirt and doing up the button.

“Because I obviously can’t stand being with myself.” Minto sits up on her elbow. Her lower stomach bunches.

“That’s because you are fundamentally insufferable.” Zakuro holds up her bra. It is unlined and green lace.

“ _Ouch_!” Minto says, her voice coy.

“Did that really hurt?” Zakuro asks, still holding her bra in her hand.

“On the inside,” Minto drawls. It actually really did hurt.

Zakuro puts her bra back onto the railing of the bed. She walks over to the side of the bed. She gets on the bed and rolls over to lie beside Minto. She is still half naked, but Minto doesn’t mind.

“You’ll stay?” Minto asks in a small voice. Zakuro sighs and nods.

“I will.”

**

Her brother is a perfect person. Minto looks at him over the table as she picks at her salad. Nice hair, a well-fitting suit, a handsome face. The world is his oyster. Minto envies his ability to be excel. She was a good ballerina and student, but she was never elite at anything. It’s what she had envied in about Zakuro; she was always excellent. No one ever dismissed or questioned her strength.

Seiji looks at her push her salad around her plate. “You should eat more,” he says.

“I’m not hungry,” she replies. Ever since Zakuro came and messed up her plans, there has been a tight knot in her stomach for the past week. No calls, texts or emails. Not even a letter.

“I’m worried about you,” he says, “I thought this new job would help you turn some things around.”

“What in my life needs to be turned around?” Minto asks, stabbing a tomato. He blinks at her. He doesn’t recognize his sister. Her depression had been long and unrelenting, and Seiji has assumed that she would be the person that she had been previously. Minto had always been a happy girl, funny and smart. But the while the depression didn’t kill her, it has taken her away. These days, she is more of a blank wall. She looks and talks like his sister, but she isn’t Minto. It’s enough to get by and fool strangers but he can see that there is no light in her eyes.

“You seem lonely,” he says. Minto shrugs.

“Well, I’m Ichigo’s Maid of Honour, so I am going to be getting in touch with everyone.” All the friends she didn’t bother keeping in touch with.

“That’s good,” he says, “you were happy when you worked at that café.” Minto nods. She sips her drink, because she doesn’t like to think about when she was last happy. At this point, she can’t remember ever being happy. Maybe content. But not happy.

“I have always been myself, Seiji,” she keeps her voice soft. One of the most humiliating parts of being depressed is having to admit that, to some extent, this monster is a part of you. You just didn’t see it in time.

“Yes, you have,” he says, placing a bit of cucumber into his mouth. She bites the lining of her cheek and decides that tomatoes make her nauseous.

**

Zakuro is the kind of girl who regularly takes her headphones off, only to realize that someone has been trying to have a conversation with her. No one ever seems to register the headphones and leave her alone. She has a big obnoxious pair too.

Ryou is different from most people, in the sense that that he will sit across from her and simply wait for her to be finished. She smiles at him and pushes her headphones back down from over her ears.

“Hi,” she says.

“I sat here for ten minutes.” He drawls, throwing an apple up into the air. They are on a picnic bench in a park. There are kids shouting, and the sun is out. “Why’d you call me?”

“I did something stupid, and I think you’ll find it funny,” she replies. Ryou raises his eyebrows.

“Funny _ha ha_ or…?” he trails off.

“Maybe.” Zakuro honestly doesn’t know if she is the joke.

“Well?” he asks.

“I slept with Minto,” Zakuro says in a flat voice, “twice.”

Ryou’s mouth drops into a perfect circle, before he starts laughing. She hadn’t expected anything less, but it is a little annoying.

“She’s cute,” Zakuro says defensively.

“She is your type,” he wheezes, “but Minto? Really?”

“Yes, really and truly.” Zakuro sniffs. He pauses and tilts his head at her.

“You’re defensive,” he says, “you told me this would be funny.”

“It’s not that funny,” Zakuro replies. Ryou grins and nods his head.

“Okay.” He says in a sunny voice.

“Okay?” she asks.

“Yes. Okay.” He smiles.

“You’re going to drop it?” she asks. He shakes his head.

“I’m going to pick it back up when you can admit that you really like her,” he bites into his apple.

Zakuro frowns and picks up a grape. She throws it at his head, and he opens his mouth to catch it. He does, and she gives him the middle finger when he gives her a shit-eating grin.

**

Zakuro and Minto sit across from each other. They are at a café for lunch. Minto looks at the menu, frowning. When Zakuro invited her to lunch, Minto thought about declining. Zakuro stayed at her apartment for a night and then set up a date two days later. It’s out of character, and Minto doesn’t know if she would even like Zakuro if she was nice to her.

She glances across the table, and Zakuro is scanning the menu as well. “Why did you ask me to lunch?” Minto asks. Zakuro looks up at her with a flat expression.

“I felt like taking you on a date.” She says in a flat voice. Minto scoffs.

“You said that I’m insufferable,” she replies.

“I had sex with you twice. _Clearly_ , I don’t mind it,” Zakuro replies.

“I don’t believe you,” Minto counters. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“I slept next to you the other night.” That doesn’t mean nothing, even to Zakuro.

“I don’t think you like me at all.” Minto declares, “I think you are taking pity on me.” Zakuro sighs and tilts her head back up to look at the ceiling.

“Why would I pity you?” she asks.

“Because I’m lonely.” Minto replies. Zakuro blinks at her. She wonders if Minto sees all the traps and snares that she is setting up for the two of them.

“Who said I wasn’t lonely too?” Zakuro asks. Minto scoffs.

“When have you ever not wanted to be left alone?” she asks. Zakuro presses her lips into a line before answering.

“I like spending time with people, so I remember why I like to be left alone,” Zakuro says, “it’s all about balance.”

“I make you appreciate being alone?” Minto squawks, “that’s a shitty thing to say to a lonely person.” Zakuro shrugs as she looks back down at the menu.

“It’s fucked up but true.” She drawls. Minto swallows and looks at her own menu.

She shouldn’t have bothered waking up this morning, let alone coming here. Minto can’t accept that she lives in a world where Zakuro actively wants to spend time with her. It is too good to be true, the possibility that Minto could be liked by her idol. So, she orders a salad with dressing on the side, and only eats half of it. Zakuro says nothing, but Minto doesn’t miss how she eyes her plate.

Zakuro looks at her full plate like she cares whether or not Minto starves herself to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this chapter! I'll come back and fix any typos. Feel free to leave a comment. Stay safe out there!
> 
> Zakuro's line "it's fucked up but true" is straight from "FUBT" by HAIM; I highly recommend their latest album.


	3. Plait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does being nasty mean?
> 
> Minto and Zakuro figuring it out.
> 
> CW: Suicidal ideation, depression, eating issues: Minto is going to go through a lot. Her mental health issues won't be romanticized. They do impact how she moves around the world.

“Yeah, there’s blood on the wall but I’m happy”

Best Coast, “Happy”

Two months tick by into winter. Minto spends more and more time at Zakuro’s apartment. It sits above a greasy restaurant and it always smells like fried food. But it’s cozy, and Minto will sleep on a lumpy mattress if it means that she isn’t alone.

Something has undeniably changed between them. While it may be colder outside, the frost has receded between them. They don’t really cuddle, so much as Minto will touch Zakuro and she won’t pull away. Minto has learned not to be offended. It’s not personal; Zakuro just didn’t have the kind of parents that made her feel loved and emotionally safe.

“It always smells like peanut oil here,” Minto wrinkles her nose, looking up from her magazine. Zakuro has her head bent over her computer.

“I live over a restaurant,” she replies, “what do you expect?”

“That maybe you’ll move,” Minto sucks in her cheeks and puckers, like a fish. Zakuro looks up and smiles from behind her glasses. Only Minto knows she wears them. Zakuro told her, and it had made Minto’s week. _I know something about you that no one else does_.

“The rent is good,” Zakuro offers a small smile. Minto wiggles in her seat.

“But you can afford better,” she says. Zakuro turns back to her computer. Minto is like this: _you can do better, so why don’t you?_ The idea of spending less to save money is lost on her. If her mother didn’t care about the lesbian thing, Zakuro is sure that she would be glad that her daughter bagged an Aizawa. Their blood is undeniably blue; probably the same navy as the wool sweater Minto is wearing.

Zakuro shrugs, and Minto watches as her hands move across the keyboard. Every little bit of Zakuro is beautiful. She is the kind of pretty that should be naked all the time. The one thing she rarely, if ever takes off, is the friendship bracelet Bu-Ling gave her. It makes Minto jealous, knowing that while Zakuro finds it easy to brush off the pieces of herself that Minto offers, she clings onto a scrap of Bu-Ling. _She’s my best friend_ , Zakuro says. _What does that make me?_ Minto had asked. Zakuro simply smirked. _You tell me_.

Minto stares at the bracelet, all the knots and stripes of colour. _Who resents a bracelet?_ Minto thinks. _Only an insecure person_. She scrunches her mouth at the unflattering and self-evident answer.

“Why do you wear that bracelet everywhere?” Minto asks. Zakuro snorts.

“Not this again,” she murmurs.

“Indulge me.” Minto whines. Zakuro closes her laptop.

“That’s the problem,” she says, “too many people indulge you.”

“Please,” Minto blinks, her eyes big and wide. Zakuro clucks her tongue.

“Will you stop fixating if I answer the question again?” she asks. Minto bobs her head up and down, and Zakuro smiles. “It is special to me. I can’t really explain it beyond that.”

“You have nicer things,” Minto says. She took a peek in Zakuro’s small jewelry box. Lots of silver. Zakuro shrugs.

“It’s my favourite,” she shrugs. Minto hums.

“Do you think I’m someone’s favourite?” she asks. She has never given a gift that someone has felt compelled to carry around with them. She looks at Zakuro with a hopeful expression.

“You’re Ichigo’s favourite.” Zakuro replies. “She asked you to be her Maid of Honour.” Minto feels the muscles in her face constrict, and she forces herself to smile.

“You’re right,” she says, “but look at Ichigo’s choices.” Zakuro laughs and gets up to go get a glass of water.

Minto stares at Zakuro’s back, the way her hair swishes as her head turns. _I wanted to be your favorite_.

**

One thing that Minto has come to understand is that while Zakuro is one of the most intelligent and principled people she knows, that doesn’t mean she knows anything about love. In fact, it appears that Zakuro was raised in emotional destitution. It’s why she can’t comprehend loss, not the way normal people do. From an early age, she didn’t have an emotional stake in anyone’s life, and neither was there one in hers. Minto wouldn’t be surprised if Zakuro didn’t care whether she lives or dies. It’s a pessimistic thought, but it’s been dogging her for days. She will stare at the back of Zakuro’s head and think _you don’t care about me_. It gives her a certain smug satisfaction in being able to anticipate and handle theoretical rejection this well.

No, it has not yet occurred to Minto that these thoughts are simply a warning of the return of her depression. The tricky thing with her depression is that it does a very good job of convincing Minto that she is a problem, rather than it.

So, she continues to brood over Zakuro’s emotional failings. The one Minto fixates upon is that the only person Zakuro really seems to care about is Bu-Ling. There is nothing romantic between them, but Minto doesn’t care for being second place. It doesn’t help that Bu-Ling is so full of life that it is impossible to imagine her dead. Minto? Sometimes, she feels like she is dead already.

According to the World Health Organization, “depression is the leading cause of disability worldwide and is a major contributor to the overall global burden of disease.” Minto looked it up once, so that she could feel even worse about herself. Emotional self-harm is her favourite drug.

Minto picks up her wine glass and looks down into the bottom of it. She swirls her drink as Retasu talks about her date. Retasu made noodles for dinner, and Minto hasn’t eaten all day. She normally doesn’t eat carbs but she makes an exception for Retasu. She is a Taurus, so good food is her love language, and she just wants to take care of people. The least Minto can do is eat everything on her plate.

Right now, they are talking about Retasu’s recent attempt at dating. She is on all the apps, swiping and matching and chatting. She went on a date last night, and Minto can tell that Retasu really likes this guy. She is pink and trying to remain expressionless.

“So, are you going to see this guy again?” Minto asks. Retasu bites her lower lip.

“I want to,” she says.

“But?” Minto moves her hand back and forth, making her wine slosh. It’s not graceful, but that isn’t the point.

“I don’t know how to ask,” she replies in a soft voice. Minto rolls her eyes.

“What’s so hard about asking for what you want?” she says, putting her wine down so that she can shove some noodles into her mouth. Retasu shrugs.

“You know me,” she says, “I don’t like to intrude.”

“It’s the logical next step,” Minto grunts, before eating more. Retasu’s mouth softens.

“Perhaps,” she says, “I like men to chase me.” Minto swallows her food, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t even know why you like men,” she picks up her wine for a sip. Retasu smiles, picking up her glass.

“They have nice shoulders to cry on,” she takes a sip. Minto touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She runs the tip from the back of her front teeth to the back of her mouth, just to make herself shudder. She thinks about how much she would like to cry on Zakuro’s shoulders.

“But is it even fun to have sex with a man?” she asks.

“You’ve had sex with men,” Retasu says. Minto rolls her eyes.

“I was at university, it was the thing to do,” she says. She swirls her noodles around her chopsticks. It’s not polite, but Retasu is the kind of friend who cherishes gross informalities and social faux pas as evidence of intimacy. Which it sort of is, but whatever.

“To answer your question, men are what I’m used to.” Retasu puts her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her fist.

“Is that what we should be looking for—what we are used to?” Minto’s voice is dry, to hide her horror. She isn’t used to very nice things, but she would like to be. She wants more for herself.

“It’s more about what we are capable of seeing, rather than what we should be looking for.” Retasu picks up her chopsticks. “You can’t have what you can’t see.” _So, what does it mean if I can’t see happiness?_ Minto wonders. This insight is funny coming from Retasu, who is the queen of low standards and accepting mistreatment.

On the other hand, Retasu stopped dating so she could improve herself, instead of moving across the world and jumping into bed with her childhood crush. Minto has no right to say anything about self-improvement. She’s the worst at it.

Minto hums in the back of her throat, before deciding to shovel more food in her mouth, if only to make this evening end faster. Retasu watches her. It makes Minto want to spit up all her food.

“You don’t eat a lot, do you?” Retasu asks. Like most therapists, she hides her concern behind a veil of indifference. _Just acknowledge your bad feelings_. What if they are all bad? Minto swallows.

“I eat as much as I am able to.” Minto looks down at her plate. It is still half full. She wants to want to eat. But it feels like all the saliva has dried up in her mouth, and her tummy hurts.

“I know,” Retasu says softly. “We can take a break and watch a movie.” Minto looks up from her plate, grateful.

“Okay.”

**

Zakuro sniffs her wrist. She dabbed some musky perfume on, because she likes to smell like an animal, especially when she is with Berry. She is just so prim and blonde. Zakuro compensates by dressing casually, in dark clothing. Her grandfather’s trench coat is tossed over the back of the chair, and she taps her feet while Berry sips her wine. They hung out in Europe. Berry knows that Zakuro only shaves her legs and underarms, and Zakuro knows about the ugly scar on the back of Berry’s head. They never had sex, but Zakuro is sure that they could’ve, if Berry wasn’t still seeing Tasuku.

Berry tucks a long lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I think I want to cut if all off,” she says, “maybe a lob.” Zakuro tilts her head.

“It would be cute,” she says, “you have a cute face.” Berry smiles.

“You think?”

“Oui,” Zakuro says lazily. Berry sits back in her chair. She moved back from France a few months ago, like Minto. Zakuro wonders if Minto ever thought about sleeping with her.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Berry asks. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“You know the answer.” She replies.

“You always claim to see no one, but all the girls who trail after you beg to differ.” Berry sighs, “you practically break their hearts open.” Zakuro shrugs.

“I never asked them to follow me,” Zakuro says, picking up her drink. She sucks on the straw, lewdly. Berry purses her lips.

“When are you going to grow up?”

“I have a PhD,” Zakuro drawls. Berry sighs.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Berry tilts her head in the way that beguiles men and most women. A quick head tilt accompanied by a smirk. It exposes the side of her neck, making her look submissive. It works on everyone but Zakuro.

“Well, if you must know,” Zakuro drawls, “I am seeing someone.”

“What is she like?” Berry asks, smiling. Zakuro shrugs.

“She’s cute, funny. A pain in the ass, but it works for us.” Zakuro crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair. “That is all I’m saying about it.”

“Okay,” Berry hums, “will I see her at the wedding?” Zakuro smirks.

“Definitely,” she replies, “she wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Berry smiles and starts talking about all the double dates they can go on when Zakuro introduces her girlfriend to everyone.

Zakuro smiles at the idea of Minto sitting across from an oaf like Tasuku and having to pretend she cares about a man’s perspective on the world. It makes her feel warm to think about the looks of contempt they will share.

**

Zakuro holds one end of Bu-Ling’s bracelet pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She sticks her tongue out as she covers it with a thin layer of clear nail polish. She does it to preserve the bracelet. Minto watches her. She is in what one could call a mood. Zakuro put off having sex to do this. She can’t believe that she has to compete with a few knots of cotton floss for Zakuro’s attention.

“I bet that actually damages it,” Minto says without thinking. Zakuro freezes and swivels her head to look over at Minto.

“Why would you say something like that?” she asks. Minto pouts.

“Because the harder you try to hold onto something, the faster you waste your time with it.” She stands up from the couch. “You know, finitude or whatever.” Zakuro watches her hips rock from side to side. She wonders whose time is being wasted: hers or the bracelet’s.

**

Sitting with her legs crossed on the bed, Zakuro leans over one of Minto’s big art history textbooks. She is looking at a painting of St. Sebastian. Painted by Andrea Mantegna during the Italian Renaissance, his face is contorted in pain. Arrows pierce his abdomen, his legs, pinning him in place. He looks up, as if to ask _why God?_ Zakuro supposes that is the point. _Do any of these saints ever think I could use a little help here, God!_ She giggles to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Minto asks. Zakuro looks up, smiling.

“That Mantegna made sure that St. Sebastian looked hot and muscled while being pierced by arrows.” Zakuro smirks, “what a metaphor for penetration. I forgot how homoerotic this painting is.”

“That’s a religious painting,” Minto sniffs.

“So why is it so sexy?” Zakuro asks, tilting her head at Minto. She rolls her eyes and walks over to the bed. Zakuro eyes her little shorts. Minto is the kind of person who is always put together outside. It feels like a privilege, to see her in loungewear.

“Because carnal love is a good metaphor for the power of divine love.” Minto says, “why do you think there are so many hot Jesuses in European art?” Zakuro laughs. “No, I’m serious. People have always liked looking at pretty people.” Minto puts her hands on her hips and sticks her pelvis out and down.

She has this frown she does when she thinks you aren’t listening. Zakuro wonders if Minto uses it at work.

“Carnal love is enlightening?” Zakuro closes the book. She bites her upper lip. The button of her trousers is biting into her tummy.

“No. Just the ecstatic feeling of an orgasm is what communion with God _feels_ like,” Minto says in the bored voice of someone who is well acquainted with the subject they are talking about.

“Huh,” Zakuro says, taking the book off the bed and moving to the floor. Minato climbs onto the bed. “Do you think sex can lead to enlightenment?” Zakuro asks. Minto turns pink, and Zakuro laughs. “I mean, you can only find enlightenment in other people, right?”

“Isn’t that the book you’re writing, basically?” Minto asks. Zakuro shrugs.

“I guess. But I have never found enlightenment in other people.” To be exact, Zakuro has found pain, pleasure, disappointment and apathy in other people. Never enlightenment.

“Do you even have any spiritual belief?” Minto asks. She crawls onto the bed, and Zakuro opens her arms to her.

“None whatsoever,” she sighs as Minto climbs onto her lap. Minto takes Zakuro’s face in her hands. Minto looks at her like she is disappointed. It’s impossible to fall in love without faith.

“I feel sorry for you.” Minto says, pouting. She tilts Zakuro’s head from side to side.

“Why?”

“Because life is nothing without faith,” she touches her thumbs to Zakuro’s lips. Minto has spent more or less the last few years clinically depressed. She would be dead without faith.

What does Minto have faith in? Nothing much more profound than the fact that she would really, _really_ prefer to be alive than dead. It’s not much, but as her therapist liked to remind her, _one day at a time_.

Zakuro opens her mouth and takes one of Minto’s thumbs in her mouth. She sucks, and Minto smiles.

“You’re kind of nasty,” she says, “maybe even perverted.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Zakuro says.

“Show me,” she says, “show me everything.” Minto kisses Zakuro first. A parting of mouths, a slip of the tongue. A tingle along Minto’s spine as Zakuro opens up.

Zakuro falls back, and Minto hovers over her. Her apartment is expensive but drafty. The windows need to be refitted. Zakuro has discovered that Minto actually runs quite hot. Like a little furnace. Today is no exception. It’s quiet, snowing outside. The light is bright and diffuse. Zakuro runs her hand up Minto’s spine, feeling the down of her back. Minto’s knees pinch in Zakuro’s hips, but she doesn’t mind.

“Want to know something funny?” Minto asks. Zakuro frowns.

“I want to put my tongue in your mouth.” She says. Minto sits up, holding herself away. She decides to ignore Zakuro’s statement.

“Mantegna is a Virgo, like you,” Minto smirks, “do you believe in astrology?”

“I would never paint someone so pretty and act like my main motivation was to get people to believe in a higher power,” Zakuro lies back, “I would _proudly_ declare that this is a person I want to fuck.” Minto never knew how much Zakuro had to say until she started sleeping with her.

“You have so many ideas about the world,” she sighs.

“Do I bore you?” Zakuro asks. Minto shrugs.

“A little,” she smirks. “You get preachy sometimes.”

“Preachy?”

“Well, rant-y would be more appropriate.” Minto wiggles against Zakuro’s tummy. Zakuro frowns and slides her hand up Minto’s shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Trying not to bore you,” Zakuro replies, “maybe even entertain you.”

“Entertain me?” Minto asks, pulling her sweatshirt up over her head. Zakuro nods.

“I might, if you’re really lucky, beguile you—but I haven’t done that since I was a model,” she says. Zakuro never liked charming people. It’s why she left the field, if one could refer to modelling as that. She puts her hand over Minto’s breast. She brushes her thumb over her nipple, like it isn’t her but someone else touching Minto.

Minto sucks in a breath and looks down at Zakuro, who seems lost in her head. “You seem far away,” Minto says. Zakuro looks up, frowning.

“I do?”

“I can just tell when you’re not checked in.” Minto rolls over onto her back. Zakuro feels cold without her on her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Zakuro says, “let me try again.” She rolls over onto Minto and kisses her like she means it. The kind of kiss that murders doubt and makes everything else possible. Minto wraps her legs around Zakuro’s waist and untucks her sweater from her trousers. Zakuro is the kind of girl who doesn’t wear bras with cashmere sweaters. Minto is grateful for this, rubbing her thumb in an arc.

“I want you to be nasty,” Minto says into Zakuro’s mouth. She smirks in response.

“How nasty?” she asks.

“The kind of nasty that makes me never want to fuck anyone else.” Minto says. Zakuro grins.

“I haven’t already been doing that?” she asks, “has anyone else tempted you?” Minto pouts, squirming. Zakuro pins her with a look, as if to ask: _have you actually looked at anyone else?_ The truth is that Minto hasn’t thought of anyone else. It hasn’t even crossed her mind to look for someone else. She only desires Zakuro.

It’s embarrassing to look up at Zakuro, knowing that she has the same fixation she did when she was twelve. Maturity and depression killed the worst of Minto’s pride, but she has enough to know that admitting the extent of her feelings would be embarrassing. She can see Zakuro leaning her head back and laugh. Not that Zakuro ever laughs out loud. She quirks her lip and raises an eyebrow. She always keeps her mouth closed in public. Zakuro says she doesn’t like people seeing her teeth; it makes her feel vulnerable.

Therefore, one could say that if she lets Minto not only see but run her tongue along the inside of her teeth, that she at least returns some of these pathetic feelings. Minto pulls away, looking up into Zakuro’s eyes. She referred to them as sapphires when she was a girl. They are still blue, but Minto has grown out of the juvenile tendency to compare precious things to expensive jewelry. The most precious things don’t cost anything but time; they have finitude. There will come a time when Minto will no longer be looking up into Zakuro’s eyes and think of love.

“No one has tempted me,” she replies, “not yet.”

“Not yet, huh?” Zakuro murmurs. It stings to hear that it isn’t a never.

“Yes,” Minto says softly. She pulls on the bottom of her sweater, and Zakuro raises her arms so Minto can take it off. Zakuro is silent as she gets up off of the bed. She unbuttons her pants and pulls them down, down past her knees, ankles, toes. She steps out of them and doesn’t bother picking them up or folding them over even kicking them to the side. She watches Minto undress herself; gone are the little shorts and the comically large sweater. It’s just her, bare.

Minto crawls to the side of the bed and sits on the edge as Zakuro steps up. She hooks her dainty little fingers into the waistband of Zakuro’s underpants and pulls down. Zakuro looks down at Minto, her hair in her dumb buns, her Mew Mark on her back where her wings had once a grown. Looking down at the back of her head, Zakuro thinks about what nasty sex means to her.

There are some obvious interpretations. Biting, squirting, slapping. Zakuro has done it all with other women. None of it every felt nasty or dirty, so much as pathetic and theatrical attempts at such. Looking at the perfect part on the back of Minto’s hair, she thinks about how it would feel to do the nasty to Minto; what would it mean to get her to never look at anyone else? Minto looks up at her, and Zakuro searches her eyes. _How do I do the nasty to you?_ She tilts her head, touching her thumb to Minto’s lip. She takes her thumb in her mouth, and Zakuro’s jaw clenches.

“What does nasty mean to you, Minto?” she asks. Minto releases her thumb, smacking her lips as she thinks.

“Nasty.” She restrains herself from saying that is the way Zakuro treats her all the time. _Nastily_.

Actually, that’s not true. Zakuro has softened, and if Minto didn’t know better, she would say that Zakuro actually likes her company. Besides, nasty sex doesn’t mean awful or dreadful or loathsome. In a sexual context, nasty actually means divine, godly, holy. At least that’s what it means to Minto.

“Have you ever had nasty sex?” she asks. Zakuro pinches her face. Sex has disgusted her, and she has had partners she has straight up loathed, but she doesn’t think she has ever had this elusive nasty sex. Everyone speaks about it like it is a divine secret.

“I can’t say I have had sex so good that I could only describe it as nasty.” Zakuro wiggles her hips. Minto looks up at her, thinking. Out of nowhere, she thinks of her favorite pronunciations of the word theatre: they-ATE-her. Who is they, and why are they eating this enigmatic her? Zakuro likes to turn this over in her mind when confronted with something she doesn’t get.

“How about we try for that,” Minto says, “sex so good you have to call it nasty.”

“Nasty sex,” Zakuro replies, “how do we do that?” Minto shrugs.

“Just remove whatever is holding you back from showing me how much you like me,” she drawls. Zakuro smirks.

“Who says I like you?” she asks. Minto wraps her arms around her hips.

“You let me touch your teeth with my tongue,” she says. “You hate showing people your teeth.”

“My teeth have all my secrets,” Zakuro murmurs. Minto nods.

“They are all beautiful.” Like shiny bits of shell. Not inhumanly white but a soft white. Bone white. “You think about my teeth?” Zakuro asks, as Minto sinks her chin into her stomach.

“I think about all of you,” Minto thinks about the time she told Zakuro that she loved her. _I loved you, I really loved you_. They were kids, and she thought Zakuro was leaving. Ichigo had to break up their fight, right after Zakuro put her arms out and told Minto to _just shoot_ her. “I’m glad I didn’t actually shoot you.” Zakuro’s face remains stoic.

“It would have been interesting if you had,” she replies. Minto frowns.

“Then we wouldn’t be here,” she says. Zakuro shrugs.

“Well, I’ll decide if being alive is worth it after we have nasty sex.” Zakuro pulls away and gets up on the bed. She sits down, her long legs stretched out and open. Minto turns and looks at her over her shoulder, biting her lip.

“So, what does nasty feel like?” Zakuro asks, moving a hand to touch herself. Minto watches her hand, not even thinking. Zakuro sighs into her hand, wanting more and for Minto to give it to her. She finds that masturbating in front of Minto helps her get the message. Zakuro cracks her hips open wider, bending a knee to the sky. Minto shakes out her head.

“Nasty is a feeling so good you can’t take it back.” Minto says. Zakuro blinks.

“Oh?” she sighs. Minto, gaining confidence, crawls over to Zakuro.

“Do you want to know more?” she asks, replacing Zakuro’s hand with hers. Zakuro swallows and nods. “It means that the sex is so good that you can’t even pretend that you didn’t enjoy it. It wouldn’t even occur to you to deny it. Nasty sex makes you feel alive _and_ dead.” Minto moves her fingers in the circles that Zakuro likes.

Minto jumps when Zakuro kisses her first. The kind of kiss that pulls you into deep outer space. Zakuro isn’t an aggressive kisser so much as she is intense. Like she is pulling you under her spell. The whip was an appropriate weapon for her. But Minto had a bow and arrow; she would have shot Zakuro straight through the heart when she was younger, and she wonders if she is doing it now. They fall against the bed, and Zakuro takes Minto’s face in both her hands. Pulling away from her mouth, Zakuro kisses all over her face: the dainty jaw, flushed cheeks, defined brow.

For the first time, Minto wonders if nasty sex for them is unbearably tender. Two souls open to each other. Four mouths, open and hungry for each other. On that thought, Minto slides a finger in and swallows Zakuro’s moan. Zakuro moves her hands, along Minto’s back, sides, stomach.

Zakuro has never believed in soulmates, or other people, but she does think there is something incredibly special about looking into another person’s eyes and for them, like you, to believe that your souls were made for each other. _Do you think my soul is made for yours?_ Zakuro opens her eyes and pulls her face away from Minto: _do you even think I have a soul?_

Nastiness, to Zakuro, is actually tenderness. It’s something Minto knows, intuitively. No one ever touched her with love, not the real kind, not until Bu-Ling first jumped on her. Minto wonders if she is touching Zakuro with real love, or just a copy of what she thinks it is supposed to be. She reaches to kiss her again, but Zakuro stops her.

“Let me,” she murmurs, “let me be the nasty one.” Zakuro kisses the column of Minto’s throat. Love, soulmates; we + to be. We _are_ in love. We _are_ soulmates. Zakuro thinks the idea of soulmates is passé but she still wants Minto to think that they are when she comes on her.

Zakuro isn’t a domineering person, she is just a lonely one. She always struggles with how to show people love, because no one ever showed her how to do it the right way. Everything is guesswork. Zakuro mouths the plane of a stomach, palms a breast. When she finally puts her mouth against Minto, she closes her eyes and does it from touch and memory alone.

Minto tastes like salt, heat. As she presses further and further in, Zakuro realizes she isn’t digging out a truth so much as she is creating one. _The truth is, Minto, I think I could be in love with you._ Zakuro would never say something like that, for obvious reasons, but as she moves her tongue inside Minto she thinks about how ache-y she feels. As Minto groans above her, Zakuro only wants to push her further so that she can bring her close again.

She lies on her back, eyes squeezed shut, toes so curled that her feet are cramping, and still, Minto wants more. Every part of her is still and tense and ready to spring, but Zakuro seems content to leave her in limbo. _Fuck_ , Minto thinks, _fuckity fuck fuck_. She curls her spine and grabs a fist of Zakuro’s hair. She doesn’t pull; rather, she lets her hand sit in the knot. Zakuro pushes further, and Minto bites her tongue so hard she tastes copper.

Zakuro wonders if it is possible to have a soulmate even if you don’t believe in them. She does not and will not subscribe to a dumb superstition, but she is absolutely fine with it existing whether or not she believes it. It would be convenient for her. Zakuro pulls Minto closer, and trying to bury herself so deep that she might as well crawl inside Minto and stay there. She doesn’t know when she lost her edge, she just knows that it is gone.

But Minto makes the world brighter, so perhaps it is okay to not have all the answers, to be happy instead of right. When Minto’s hand tightens in her hair, Zakuro uses three fingers for each of those three magic words and hears a stream of ugly noises rip from Minto’s throat. Zakuro kisses along a lip, the inside of her thighs, waiting for Minto to breath again. She runs a hand along the back of Minto’s thigh, which makes both their hearts thump. Zakuro, being tender and comforting. She looks up at the moon of Minto’s face, the way her jaw hangs open.

From here, Zakuro looks small. She looks up at Minto with a tender expression, and her heart stops when she sees a small smile on her face. When Minto takes her chin in her hand, Zakuro rises to kiss her mouth. But Minto has other plans, kissing all over her face, just out of reach of her mouth.

“You’re a tease,” Zakuro sighs. Minto smiles.

“You don’t even notice that I am licking myself off of you?” she smirks, “I’m trying to be nasty and you’re missing all of it by talking.”

“You’re not actually licking me,” Zakuro retorts. So, Minto sticks out her tongue and licks the tip of her jaw, her chin all the way up to her nose. “That didn’t gross me out.” Minto smirks.

“It’s because you are so into me that I can’t gross you out,” she says. Zakuro thinks about saying no or laughing in Minto’s face. Instead she chooses surrender.

“You got me there,” Zakuro murmurs, kissing Minto on her mouth. She comes up, and then they fall down, Zakuro hovering over Minto. Minto wraps her legs around Zakuro’s waist, and she smiles when Zakuro takes her earlobe between her front teeth.

Minto wiggles against her tummy, and Zakuro isn’t even remotely grossed out to feel their wetness, the mixture of spit and fluids, on her tummy. _This is pretty nasty_ , she thinks to herself. Minto sighs, liking how it feels to be pressed to Zakuro. She kisses the side of Zakuro’s head and does it again when she hears a soft sigh. “My turn,” she murmurs, tracing a circle around the knot at the top of Zakuro’s spine.

“Okay,” Zakuro replies, squirming free of Minto. She rolls over and Minto follows, sitting above her.

“Any requests?” Minto asks, “I live to serve.”

“You hate doing things for other people,” Zakuro mutters. Minto smirks.

“You’re the exception. Most would feel honored,” she simpers. Zakuro stretches up, catching Minto eyeing her breasts.

“You know those paintings we talked about?” she asked. Minto nods. “I want you to show me what God feels like. Capital G.”

“The big one?”

“The one, the only, the whole.” Zakuro smiles, “show me what infinite love feels like. Or gesture to it. If you can,” Zakuro smirks, and Minto pouts.

“Do you doubt me?” she asks. Zakuro shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I thought you couldn’t do it.” Zakuro smiles big, making sure Minto sees her teeth. She rolls her eyes in response, and moves down, down to the below between Zakuro’s legs.

Minto doesn’t wait; she goes forward, strong and certain. Zakuro doesn’t like it gentle. You need a firm hand with her. Minto slides a finger in and listens to Zakuro sigh above her, and when she gets comfortable, she doesn’t hesitate to add more. She feels Zakuro’s hips tighten, but Minto forces her open. It’s like Zakuro’s body tries to prevent other people from being close to her. Not for the first time, Minto wonders what exactly happened to Zakuro. She knows better than to pry, but she has never had any other partner who would ask for more while their body seemed to shrink away.

Zakuro looks up at the ceiling, feeling all the blood in her body race towards the place where Minto’s mouth is. She stamps a leg, and curses when her hips clench. There is nothing she wants more in the world than to crack herself wide open for Minto, for her to suck up her sticky wet insides and the ugly soul that is rotting inside of her. _Break me apart,_ she bites her lip, _go on_ , _I fucking dare you_. A keening noise comes up from her throat, and Zakuro bites down, not embarrassed but a little shy. _Nasty_ , she thinks, _this is_ _nasty_. She won’t be ashamed of her orgasm, but she will be ashamed by how good it will feel.

Minto licks and sucks and eventually, finds the courage to slide her tongue all the way up into Zakuro. She doesn’t know why she is so shy about it, but it always seemed a little nasty to stick your tongue so far inside someone that you could taste them in the back of your throat. Zakuro doesn’t gross her out; the impulse towards extreme intimacy does. _Showing you what God feels like could turn me into a believer_. Minto closes her eyes and moves, soft but firm, as everything she does with Zakuro is intentional.

Zakuro’s tummy is tight, and she can’t stop moaning. She is trying, desperately, to control herself. But Minto is making her feel good and right like hot liquid. She wiggles her hips side to side and makes a shake-y sound. Minto looks up, and without warning, lifts a hand and puts a few fingers in Zakuro’s mouth. Zakuro, in a fit of pique, sucks. Minto is glad that Zakuro can’t see the way she is blushing right now.

So, she chooses to lose herself inside the sound taste and smell and feel of Zakuro. Each moan is a win, each new softness a conquest. Minto thinks her jaw might fall off, but being inside Zakuro, who is shaking and panting and wet, makes it worth it. Her jaw could be wired shut for the rest of her life, for all she cares.

In a flash of hot-white-heat, Zakuro comprehends just how beautiful the sudden heat death of the universe will be. If this isn’t God, and she is sure it is, then this is pretty damn close. Everything moves fast, moving further and further apart until it gets pulled back down together. Like coming back to earth, except there is nothing to fall back upon. This isn’t enlightenment, but it is a revelation to Zakuro that she could feel this strongly about something another person is doing to her.

Minto keeps going, searching, until Zakuro takes her hand out of her mouth, and presses her lips to her knuckles. She stops, biting her lip, before looking up at Zakuro. They look at each other, breathing hard. With the tip of her tongue, Zakuro licks one of Minto’s knuckles, like she wants to lick them clean.

 _Is this what God feels?_ Minto doubts it. The floaty, happy, absolute rush of being the first to give Zakuro proper, nasty sex is something only she can feel. God made it possible, but Minto went and did it. She sits up, and crawls all the way up Zakuro’s stomach, to lie on top of her. She lies with her ear to her sternum, and Minto listens to Zakuro’s heartbeat return to normal.

**

Zakuro sits on the floor, her legs under the coffee table as she sits hunched over her laptop. Books are stacked all around her. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail that sits on the crown of her head, making her look impossibly young. Minto’s legs are curled under her as she sits on the couch. She likes watching Zakuro work.

She keeps making these frustrated grunts and tensing her hands into fists. Minto thinks it is kind of cute. But Zakuro clearly looks irritated with whatever she is working on.

“What’s wrong?” Minto asks. Zakuro narrows her eyes at her screen.

“All these shitty translations I have to work from,” she sighs, running her hand through her bangs. “I mean, _fuck_ , is it hard to ask for standards or some kind of quality control. _Look_ at the shit Stanford published!” Zakuro holds up a book and waves it. “You know how much this book cost?”

“I don’t think I want to,” Minto says, eyeing the book. “Why are you working from translations? You are fluent in English.” Zakuro sighs.

“Because I don’t want to put in the work of translating things,” she says, “but I seem to end up doing it anyways.” Zakuro deflates, slumping down against the couch.

“It’s weird, watching you pity yourself,” Minto says. Zakuro throws her head back and grunts.

“I like to indulge every so often,” she says.

“You know six languages,” she says, “I am sure you can figure it out.” Zakuro smirks.

“I don’t remember telling you how many languages I can speak,” she says. Minto turns pink and makes a squeaking noise. Zakuro grins. “Did you learn about that in a magazine?”

“So? You’re the one fucking a fan!” Minto shrieks. Zakuro laughs.

“Is that what this is? Me fucking a fan?” she shakes her head. She looks up at Minto, who frowns.

“Nothing less, nothing more,” she replies. In her head, whoever keeps their cool wins. Zakuro, who doesn’t play games, leans over and licks Minto’s leg. She jumps, and Zakuro falls onto her side, laughing.

**

Everything has an expiry date, even if it claims not to. Zakuro lies on her back on the floor of Ryou’s bedroom, as he looks at different shirts. He has a date tonight. Baby steps.

“You can lie on the bed,” he drawls, impassive.

“I like the floor,” Zakuro says, “did you know that the floor is where Minto and I first had sex?” Ryou scrunches his nose.

“Two emotionally damaged yet immensely privileged lesbians have sex on a hard, unyielding flat surface. I feel like there is a lot of porn like that on the internet,” Ryou says, “you two are so pretty, you could make a movie and sell it.”

“Gross,” Zakuro sticks out her tongue. Ryou laughs.

“You could make a lot of money,” he teases. Zakuro narrows her eyes.

“Not a life changing amount. Maybe enough to cover rent for a few months.” She stretches into a yawn. Ryou laughs.

“But pissing off both sets of parents: priceless.” He sighs. Zakuro frowns.

“My parents don’t know how to use the internet,” she grunts as she sits up. “If it were artistic enough, Minto’s daddy would probably want to encourage her work.” Ryou smirks.

“So, you _have_ thought about making a porno with Minto,” he says.

“It’s not like that,” she says, feeling defensive.

“So, what is it like, then?” Ryou has been curious for some time. Zakuro doesn’t talk about her relationships much, if at all, but she has never been reluctant to tell him details. She is usually the first one to make a joke about lesbian porn.

“She’s not like the others.” Zakuro says. It is as close as she can get to admitting that Minto is special. Ryou hums, nodding. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. She narrows her eyes.

“It is never nothing with you.” She says.

“It’s just this is the first time you’ve talked about her in months, and it seems like she is a real person to you.” Ryou frowns at the red t-shirt on his bed.

“She was always real to me,” Zakuro deadpans. Ryou shrugs.

“I know. It’s just now I know that she matters to you.” He looks at a blue t-shirt. Zakuro shakes her head at him, and he tosses it into the hamper.

“I feel like I am inviting life-ruining energy into my life,” she sighs. Ryou grins.

“Now, I can definitely tell that you have spending time with Minto.” He laughs, “she would say something like life-ruining energy.” Zakuro frowns. “C’mon, you expect me to believe that you came up with that one yourself? Who are you trying to fool?” Ryou laughs, even when Zakuro throws a slipper at his head.

Needless to say, he definitely doesn’t apologize.

**

Minto lies on her stomach, chin on her hands, watching Zakuro pin her hair into a French twist. Her hair is insanely pretty and thick. Sometimes, Zakuro likes to go a few days without washing it, so she pins it up into different styles. Chignons, twists, braids. She even lets Minto play with it.

She watches Zakuro frown, concentrating with bobby pins pressing into her lower lip. She is wearing a crop top and little boy shorts. Minto looks at her Mew Mark, a few curved lines on either side of her belly button. She had offered to make out with it once, and Zakuro had smirked and replied _how about some other time?_

Minto wonders if that other time will ever come. She has a sinking feeling that it won’t come to pass. She takes some solace in the face that no one else will ever love that belly button like her.

**

Seiji is making an effort to spend time with Minto. He keeps telling her that he wants her to be happy, that she worries him. He tells her how much he cares, but somehow, it leaves her feeling more like a burden than a beloved sister. _Am I hard to love?_ Minto wants to ask. Seiji would say no, but they both know the answer is more complicated. She is needy. There isn’t enough love or affection that could fill the hole within.

He holds out an iced coffee to her. Minto takes it from him. No milk, no sugar. No calories, and it will wake her up. It’s all she can bear to consume.

“Minto,” he says, “you seem upset.”

“I’m not upset. I’m just alive.” She sucks on the straw. It takes a lot of energy, hiding it from Zakuro.

“Being alive doesn’t make people miserable.” Seiji sighs.

“Do I bore you?’ she snaps.

“No, you worry me.” He replies, patient as ever. “Am I only the person you see?”

“I am helping Ichigo plan her wedding!” Minto replies. Seiji shrugs.

“I mean, is there anyone else who knows about this?” he tucks his hands into his pockets. She shakes her head.

“You need to be honest with people,” he says, “I can’t be your only person.” Minto blinks up at him, sipping her coffee. Maybe her teeth will rot inside of her skull and give her gangrene, and she will die that way.

“You’re the only person obligated to love me,” she says. Everyone else can walk away. Not Seiji. He tilts his head and frowns.

“I’m not obligated to love you.” He murmurs, “I just love you, and I’m not the only one.” Minto looks away, crossing her arms. She doesn’t want to cry on the street, but she thinks it might make her feel better.

She doesn’t mean to have an attitude. It’s just that everything hurts, like, on a soul level. It takes everything to get out of bed, to go to work. She’s maxed out, trying to pretend everything is okay. Every time she kisses Zakuro, she can temporarily escape, but she doesn’t know how long that will last. She wants to be a whole, working person who can make Zakuro see God and boss Ichigo around.

“I think I need to see someone,” she murmurs. Every time she goes to the doctor, she feels like a failure. She just wants to be fixed. Seiji nods.

“I think so too.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll set the appointment up now.”

He holds the phone to his ear, and Minto thinks about how lucky she is to have the kind of brother who has her doctor’s number on his phone. She must have really scared him. Minto feels bad about it, but she barely has the energy to hold her head up. Seiji gets her an appointment for that day, and he takes the day off of work to be with her.

She doesn’t cry until the doctor asks her to rate her pain on a scale from one to ten. _Soul level agony_ cannot be measured on a scale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little update. Zakuro and Minto are inspiring me, so here it is. Stay safe out there in the age of COVID. 
> 
> I will come back and deal with typos--I can only promise that they bother me too. Feel free to leave a comment! I like knowing what people think about the stuff I am working on.


	4. French Braid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you want me to say?"
> 
> CW: Suicidal ideation, depression, eating issues: Minto is going to go through a lot. Her mental health issues won't be romanticized, but they are present in the narrative.

“I’ve never fallen from quite this high”

Billie Eilish, “Ocean Eyes”

The café hasn’t changed at all. It is still pink and frosted and impossibly girly. Zakuro feels out of place in her black pants and black turtleneck. She clutches her champagne, still nervous of large crowds, even if they are all people she knows. Lifting her glass, she touches the champagne to her lips, but she doesn’t swallow.

“You look like a depressed person,” Bu-Ling says. She is wearing an obnoxious neon yellow sundress. Zakuro didn’t know sundresses could be so aggressive in their tastelessness, but that is Bu-Ling for you. She wears giant, chucky plastic earrings in bubble gum pink that bobble with her entire head.

“Your dress is tacky.” Zakuro grins. Bu-Ling bops around, unable to stay still.

“But it’s a happy outfit,” she hums. Zakuro shrugs.

“I prefer to dress like an adult.” She replies.

“If adulthood means embracing depression and cynicism, I want _nothing_ to do with it,” Bu-Ling drawls.

“Keep dreaming,” Zakuro smirks.

“I will,” Bu-Ling sighs, “I mean, look at Ichigo. She never stopped dreaming and look at her and Masaya!” Zakuro doesn’t say what she really thinks: that Masaya is just a regular, boring dude with a possessive streak and pedestrian ambitions. He is what he is, and better the monster you know. From her casual observations, Zakuro knows that this is how most women justify their long-term relationships with men. Masaya isn’t a _bad_ guy. Zakuro just can’t see his appeal.

“You want to marry someone boring?” Zakuro asks. Bu-Ling frowns.

“I want to meet someone stable.” She sighs. Zakuro guesses that her new boyfriend hadn’t lasted very long.

“Don’t we all?” Zakuro says, scanning the crowd. Minto isn’t boring or stable so much as she, for all her dramatics, is exceedingly predictable. Zakuro doesn’t want to get married, but recently, she has reconsidered living the rest of her days alone. When she sees Minto stomping around, wearing a simple dress of water colour blues and indigos, she smiles. Zakuro likes Minto’s little dresses. They make her seem way more ladylike than she actually is.

Minto is across the room, fluttering around the open bar, fussing over every last detail. Keiichiro clearly panders to her, cleaning glasses and moving the plates so they look _just so_.

Personally, Minto is convinced that she has to do everything herself if she wants it to be done right. She glares at Retasu, who is talking to Ringo in the corner. They are both shy and have a tendency to hide at parties. They aren’t trying to shirk any responsibility, but it is annoying to have to go up and remind them how they are supposed to be helping.

She tucks her hair behind her ears and crosses her arms. Masaya is boring but Ichigo deserves nothing less than perfection, and by God, Minto vows to deliver. The tablecloths are all white, and the entire room is arranged to encourage people to walk around and mingle. Minto looks over at Ichigo, who is wearing a short white dress, hanging off of Masaya. She still wears that ugly bell around her neck. Zakuro would die before giving Minto a bell on a ribbon to wear around her neck, _like a kitten_. She wonders if Ichigo and Masaya meow during sex. If he wanted to, Ichigo definitely would. Minto wrinkles her nose at the thought.

She turns around and Zakuro stands before her, wearing one of her all-black outfits. She doesn’t even make an effort to look different. Minto knows she came here straight from work, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to her dress up a little more.

“You look the same as you did this morning,” Minto says. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“I put on mascara and chapstick.” Zakuro replies, “I even curled my lashes for this.” Minto sniffs.

“You look like you are going to a funeral,” she says. Zakuro smirks.

“Weddings are a funeral of sorts. At least, they mark the end of an era.” Zakuro sets her champagne down on the table, making Minto’s eye twitch.

“Don’t leave that there!” She growl-whispers. Zakuro thinks it is cute.

So cute, that she does something she has never done before. She cups Minto’s elbow and rubs her thumb against the side of her arm. It’s a tender gesture. It shuts Minto up.

“What are you doing?” she murmurs. Zakuro smiles.

“I don’t really know,” she says, “I’m not thinking about it.” Minto looks around. No one seems to notice, but she pulls away anyways. Zakuro frowns, but she doesn’t say anything. Minto touches the side of her neck, looking at the ground.

“I need to go check in with Ichigo,” she says. Zakuro picks up her champagne, nodding.

“Okay. I’ll go put this in the kitchen,” she says, walking away before Minto can say anything. Minto doesn’t look over her shoulder, but she knows that Zakuro is hurt. Minto makes eye contact with Ryou, as he follows Zakuro into the kitchen.

Zakuro dumps her champagne into the sink, frowning. Not since her mother, has someone rejected her attempts to be close. It’s why she doesn’t bother, remaining the passive partner in her relationships. She doesn’t want to cry, but it would feel really good to punch something. She’s not a model anymore, so she doesn’t have to keep her hands pretty. A busted knuckle would make her feel something.

“I hate parties,” she hears Ryou over her shoulder.

“I can imagine this one especially sucks.” She sets the glass on the counter. The bubbles fizz in the sink.

“It’s a real sucker,” he sighs. “Want to talk about it?” Zakuro bites her lips and looks at the wall in front of her.

“No,” she says, “I can’t say that I do.” Ryou nods, walking up behind her.

“Minto has grown up,” he says, “I’m sure she is just trying to be subtle. Everyone knows she wants you.” She has loved Zakuro since she was a kid. Zakuro shifts, turning to look at Ryou.

“She hasn’t changed,” she frowns, “not one bit.” Ryou crosses his arms. He looks unimpressed.

“Neither have you,” he says. Zakuro frowns.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“You have a tendency to brood, and you are overly sensitive to rejection. It’s why you only do things you are good at already,” he says, smiling. “Like me.”

“And Minto?” she asks.

“She still cares about what people think,” Ryou says.

“We’re both out,” she huffs. It’s not a secret.

“Is she even you girlfriend?” Zakuro frowns at his question, and Ryou makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Have you considered that maybe Minto only wants her girlfriend to touch her like that in public?” Zakuro huffs.

“Relationships are stupid.” She mutters. Ryou sighs.

“You’re consistent,” he says, “I give you that.” Zakuro pouts and decides to wash her glass. Ryou sits on the counter beside her, until Keiichiro comes in and shoos them out.

When she and Ryou leave the kitchen, Minto is nowhere to be found. She doesn’t see Bu-Ling either, so Zakuro decides it is time to leave. Zakuro and Ryou sneak out before Ichigo cuts the cake, and she doesn’t answer Minto’s four calls and five texts until the next morning.

**

Minto sits on the toilet, crying. She looks down at her hands, fisting them into her dress. Zakuro finally touched her in public, and all she could think of is how embarrassing it would be for their friends to find out that she still has such a pathetic crush. That Zakuro could still make her feel melty, all these years later.

She is waiting for the medication to work but waiting is hard when you feel so bad that you want to crawl out of your own skin. She is careful to wipe her tears upwards, so that her eye makeup doesn’t melt down her face. Minto feels like a selfish mess. Who cries at their best friend’s engagement party? _Only a person miserable to the point of selfishness_. She hears a knock at the door.

“Occupied!” She shouts.

“It’s me!” Bu-Ling shouts back. _Oh, for fuckssakes_. Minto steps to the door and unlocks it.

“I’m busy.” She says. Bu-Ling blinks at her. “What are you looking at?”

“Are you crying?” Bu-Ling asks in a quiet voice. Minto puffs her cheeks, looking up before looking at Bu-Ling.

“What of it?” she asks.

“Well, what’s wrong?” Bu-Ling asks. “Did Zakuro say something to you? You both seem off.” Minto shakes her head.

“I’m just sad, Bu-Ling.” _Incredibly, deeply sad_.

“Oh,” she replies. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Minto hums impatiently.

“I know.”

“So…” Bu-Ling gestures with her hands, clearly expecting Minto to tell her everything. She sighs.

“I’ll need a minute to clean up, and then Ichigo and Masaya should cut the cake.” Minto walks back into the bathroom, and Bu-Ling follows her.

“Why won’t you tell us when you’re hurt?” Bu-Ling’s hands are on her hips, and Minto bites back a rude comment about her ugly earrings.

“Because I have better things to do then complain, like hosting this party.” Minto pats her face with a wad of toilet paper. Bu-Ling frowns.

“What was France about?” she says. Minto sighs.

“It was about self-exploration.” Minto frowns at her own reflection.

“Liar.” Bu-Ling hisses, before leaving the bathroom. Minto watches her, an impassive expression on her face. She decides to apologize to Zakuro before she gets Ichigo to cut the cake.

**

Minto sits back on the couch, looking up at Ichigo. She is wearing a frothy looking dress. Lots of lace and tulle. A 1950’s sort of confection. The neckline for sweethearts, a nipped in waist for shape, tea-length so she doesn’t look like a walking cupcake. Ichigo is wearing a veil and squirming under Minto’s critical gaze.

She didn’t even bring her mother to the appointment. Ichigo wants her dress to be a complete surprise. However, she still needs to make sure that she looks good. So, she brought Minto. She crosses her legs, looking up at Ichigo. She radiates happiness, and there are tears in the corners of her eyes.

“If I say yes, you won’t make us wear flower crowns, right?” Minto smiles. Ichigo rolls her eyes.

“This is the dress,” she replies. Minto nods.

“It’s the one,” she replies. It took her an hour to drag herself out of bed this morning. The bupropion helps, but you can’t cure a dead thing. Minto forces herself to keep up with her job and hygiene, only for Zakuro and Ichigo. The former because she doesn’t want to admit to weakness, the latter because it would break Ichigo’s heart to know Minto was in any pain.

“Minto,” Ichigo says, “I’m getting married.”

“One dick for the rest of your life,” she smirks. Ichigo lets that joke slip. She has always wanted Minto’s approval, and it delights her to finally have it.

Ichigo looks in the mirror, playing with her veil. “I feel pretty.”

“You are pretty,” Minto says, “I don’t spend time with ugly people.” Ichigo snorts.

“That’s mean, even for you,” Ichigo says. Minto shrugs.

“I only hang out with you.” She says. That isn’t even a lie, and she has been careful to keep it up. She doesn’t want people to know about her and Zakuro. It feels like it would be like admitting a weakness. _I loved you, I really loved you_. Minto taps her finger against her knee. She feels bad about herself, so she wants to do something impulsive. “I am buying the dress for you.” She opens up her handbag and takes out her check book.

As far as Minto it concerned, she is an evolutionary dead end. Ichigo is the closest she will get to having a daughter. She turns to the attendant. “How much is it?”

“Don’t tell her!” Ichigo shrieks. Minto frowns.

“Don’t yell in public,” she drawls, “it is unbecoming. I have no idea how Masaya puts up with you.”

“You can’t pay for it.” Ichigo says, “it is too much.”

“No, it isn’t, and yes, I can.” Minto stands up. “I have the money and I am in a charitable mood.” She doesn’t mention that it’s a bonus that she gets the thrill of spending a lot of money without having to explain to Zakuro why she bought it.

“Minto,” Ichigo, “I can’t let you do this.”

“I’m not asking,” Minto replies, bored with this conversation. “How much is it?”

It ends up exceeding Ichigo’s budget. She frowns as Minto writes the check. When they get lunch after, she insists on paying for it. Minto shrugs, like, _sure_ —it really is gross how much money she is sitting on. Her job is, really, just for fun.

She makes herself finish her lunch, because Ichigo is paying for it. 

**

Minto walks around the grocery store, cursing under her breath. She is staying at her own place tonight. She plans on treating herself, which means taking a bath and reading a magazine. After, she is going to eat a big box of macarons while watching something stupid like _Twilight_. She might even masturbate, while thoroughly bloated and tired, to help her go to sleep.

She already bought the macarons, which are in her kitchen. But she does need actual food, since she doesn’t eat anything, really. She has salmon, tea, yogurt, eggs, apples, bell peppers, broccoli and granola bars in her basket. She has rice at home, and she is trying to eat more. But because change is hard, she has a bottle of multivitamins and omega-3 capsules, in hopes of preventing scurvy and fixing her broken brain.

However, she really wants to bake cookies. Retasu gave her a recipe and dropped off all the ingredients, except chocolate chips. Since Minto never goes into the middle aisles, she has no idea where they are. She paces up and down the baking aisle, but she has a headache and she really, _really_ wants to go home and feel sorry for herself. She rubs her temples, sighing.

“Hi,” Minto spins around, Zakuro standing behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Zakuro shrugs.

“I wanted to see you, but you weren’t at your place. I stopped here to get something to eat.” Zakuro is holding a few rice balls in her hands, and a carton of chocolate milk. She works out so she can eat the way she wants. Minto envies her discipline.

“Well, here I am.” She holds her basket between them. Zakuro tilts her head.

“Do you want to see me tonight?” she asks. The have been doing this for four months, and it strikes Zakuro that they have never discussed what they mean to each other.

“I wanted to spend some time alone.” Minto looks her right in the eye, but Zakuro can tell from the twitch of her lip that something is wrong.

“Why are you in this aisle?” she asks. Minto frowns.

“I am expanding my horizons,” she sniffs, “I am going to bake chocolate chip cookies.” Zakuro snorts.

“Hm, sounds like a challenge,” she drawls. “Are you looking for the chocolate chips?”

“Well, yes.” Minto says, keeping her chin up. Zakuro nods, and points behind Minto.

“They are there, right behind you.” Minto spins around and sees them right at eye level. She snatches a package off of the shelf and throws it in her basket.

“Thank you,” Minto says. Zakuro blinks at her.

“Are you going to pay for that?” she asks. Minto frowns.

“Obviously.”

“I mean now. Are you going to pay _now_ ,” Zakuro says, “we could go together.”

“Oh, I still have some things I need to get. I’ll call you tomorrow!” Minto says in a too-high voice, turning around and walking away. Zakuro narrows her eyes and frowns.

“See you around,” she mutters, before leaving the aisle. Minto walks around for an extra thirty minutes before she pays for her food. She just doesn’t want to deal with anything tonight.

**

Something Zakuro has noticed is that Minto is very good at pushing food around her plate. It takes talent to make it look like you’re eating when you never open your mouth. Minto has been trying to eat more, but she can tell that tonight is going to be one of those bad days.

“You wouldn’t have to eat nothing if you exercised regularly.” Minto looks up at Zakuro, blinking. _You really think I’m that vain?_ Minto thinks. She frowns.

“I don’t dance anymore.” She replies, “I can’t eat like I did then.”

“Neither do I,” Zakuro says, “I run and lift weights, some yoga. We could do it together.” Zakuro smiles. Normally, Minto would jump on any bit of her life Zakuro offers. But she isn’t a kid anymore, and she is self-conscious of her body. It makes her not want to exercise.

The depression isn’t getting worse, but it’s not better. Minto feels a lot of shame. Her depression was triggered by a dead dog, which she knows Zakuro won’t judge, but that doesn’t mean Minto wants to tell her. Some things are for her alone.

“I don’t want to,” she says softly. Zakuro gives her a reassuring smile and reaches her hand across the table to touch Minto’s arm.

“It could be fun,” she smiles. It hurts Minto more than when Zakuro was mean to her.

“Maybe,” she says, pushing her plate away. “I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?” Zakuro picks up her plate and tries to keep the concern off of her face. She has never heard Minto sound so…sad.

“I can clean up in here,” she murmurs. Minto nods, and walks into the bedroom.

Zakuro waits a few hours before joining her. Minto sleeps like a rock. Zakuro takes off her clothes and pulls a large shirt over her head before slipping under the covers. She doesn’t put her arms around Minto, but she lies right next to her. _Why are you so sad_ , she thinks, and _why can’t I fix it?_

**

Here is a fun fact: did you know that if you consume three thousand almonds, you will have taken a lethal dose of cyanide? Minto thinks about things like this a lot. It would be impossible to ingest all those almonds. It’s why no one has died that way. Minto has thought about searching it on the internet, but she has decided to restrain herself.

One of the funniest things about antidepressants is that they aren’t fun to OD on, i.e. there is no nice fade-to-black passing over into oblivion. On your way to a lethal dose, which would be hard but not impossible, you would become so violently ill that you would probably be found or call emergency services yourself before you would actually die. The gesture of suicidality itself is more concerning than the means.

To be clear: Minto doesn’t _want_ to die. It’s just that living sometimes feels like an unyielding hell. She peels herself off of her bed and rolls her head side to side after sitting up. _I don’t want to die_ , she says to herself, as if to make it true. She’s manifesting.

If Zakuro were here, she would smirk and say _that’s a choice_.

**

When she sits down to write, Zakuro always starts with an outline; a collection of quotes, ideas, little things she has jotted down. She sits at her kitchen table, a leg bent as she hunches over. Zakuro chews on her thumb. _How to write about radical nothingness and the other?_ She thinks about biting into the skin at the top of her thumb, and using her teeth, pulling a whole stretch of skin down to expose the muscles, ligaments and bones. She would much rather vivisect her thumb than look at her computer screen. She sighs and leans back, sticking her fingers under her glasses to rub her eyes. _Jesus Christ_ , she thinks, _when did I get so fucking stupid?_

She lets out a moan, and Minto laughs from the couch. “Not going so well, is it?”

“No, it really isn’t,” Zakuro sighs, tightening her ponytail. Minto watches, wanting to walk over and tug on Zakuro’s hair. She restrains the impulse.

“What’s the problem?” she asks. Zakuro groans.

“Everything,” she replies. Minto gets up and pads over. Zakuro scoots her chair back, and Minto sits on her lap, arms around her neck.

“That can’t be it,” Minto says, “you’re the smartest person I know.”

“Then everyone you know must be an idiot.” Zakuro closes her laptop. Minto frowns.

“You know them too,” she says. Zakuro shrugs. Minto sighs. “What’s the problem, then?”

“I am trying to write about what relationships with others can tell you about the radical nothingness of non-being.” Zakuro leans her head on Minto’s bony shoulder. She likes how the top wing of her clavicle digs into her temple.

“You’re talking about death.” Minto says. Zakuro nods.

“The deaths of others,” she hums. Minto swallows, thinking about poor Mickey. Bone cancer. Death came fast and quick, for she would never let him linger in pain. His ashes are on her dresser, in an urn that looks like a vase with a lid. It’s tasteful, and Zakuro has never asked her about it. She probably thinks it is another pretentious, rich person trinket.

“You can’t feel like a person without others.” Minto hums. Zakuro wraps her arms around her waist.

“What do you mean?” she tucks her face into her shoulder, and Minto sighs.

“I mean that you don’t know who you are without other people.” She says, “what’s the point otherwise?” Zakuro frowns.

“Of living?”

“If not for others, why?” Minto says. She thinks of her brother and dead dog. They make her feel like a real person, like she matters to someone.

“I never thought of it like that before,” she pouts. “Maybe you are the smart one.” Minto laughs.

“I don’t know about that,” she replies, “I had a real family.”

“It’s true,” Zakuro says, “those make a big difference.” Minto smiles, enjoying Zakuro’s closeness. Recently, intimacy has come easy. It makes Minto think that they could really be something, even though Zakuro doesn’t understand why other people matter.

 _I’ll teach you,_ she thinks, in a good mood. _You’ll learn to like being a human being and we will be happy._

**

Bu-Ling is the kind of adult who always drinks hot chocolate if she sees it on the menu. She slurps her hot chocolate while Zakuro sips her coffee. Bu-Ling is an enthusiastic eater, so much so, that it is rewarding to watch her consume anything. “What did you think of the party?” Bu-Ling asks. Zakuro blinks. She was having a horrible time, so she left early with Ryou.

“It was fine,” she says. Bu-Ling narrows her eyes.

“You left early,” she hums, “you missed Minto crying in the bathroom.” Zakuro stiffens.

“She cried in the bathroom?” she asked. Bu-Ling nods. “Did she say why?” _Was it because I touched her elbow?_ Bu-Ling tilts her head, thinking.

“She just said she was sad. She didn’t want to talk about it.” Bu-Ling taps an acrylic against the table. “Did something happen between you two?” Zakuro sips her coffee, thinking about the question.

“Nothing that would make her cry in a bathroom.” She drawls. Bu-Ling snorts.

“I don’t want to know.” She says. “But you should talk to her.”

“I should talk to her?” Zakuro asks, “why me?” Bu-Ling smiles.

“Because she listens to you.” Bu-Ling runs her tongue along her upper lip. “I don’t think she’s happy with where she has ended up.”

“What makes you say that?” Zakuro asks, thinking about what it would mean for Minto to tell her that she isn’t happy with her life. _Is it my fault?_

“I’m a stripper. Most of my regulars are people who aren’t happy with where they ended up.” Bu-Ling scratches her head. “I am an expert on unhappiness.”

“An expert?” Zakuro smirks. Bu-Ling smiles.

“Are you happy?” she asks.

“I am largely indifferent,” Zakuro replies. Bu-Ling snorts. _You and Minto really are soulmates._

**

There is a particular kind of café that Ichigo always picks for them to have lunch. It’s usually cutesy, with lots of pastries and pink and helpful servers. Everyone smiles in here. It is just like Café Mew Mew, which is still open. But none of them can go there without feeling like they ought to be working. So, they visit substitutes for the real thing.

Minto looks at her silver watch, frowning at the time. “Ichigo is late,” she says. Retasu sighs.

“I am sure that there is a good reason,” she says. Minto rolls her eyes. Retasu is the kind of person who is always sure that there is a _good reason_ for someone’ obvious failings

“Ichigo moves at the speed of evolution,” she drawls. Retasu frowns.

“Don’t be so hostile.” She looks right at Minto, making her shift in her seat.

“Whatever,” Minto crosses her arms. Retasu presses her mouth into a line. It’s how Minto knows that she is going to try and fix her. Her tells are all obvious.

“How are you feeling?” Retasu asks in her kind voice. Minto could be honest, but she doesn’t think _I feel nothing but an unbearable loneliness even when I’m with other people_ would go over well.

“Hostile,” Minto deadpans.

“No, really. You’ve been different these last few months.” Retasu blinks at Minto, as if that will make her forthcoming. Minto has had five different therapists blink at her. This is child’s play. _Amateur_ , she thinks, a mean thought that makes her feel better until it makes her feel worse for thinking that of a rightfully concerned friend.

“I feel unavailable,” she replies. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the truth.

“That can’t feel very nice,” Retasu murmurs. Minto shrugs.

“This world isn’t very nice.” Minto tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You’re really sad, aren’t you?” Retasu asks. She is completely sincere and absolutely correct.

“You could say that, I suppose.” Minto looks at the floor. Retasu nods and picks up the menu.

“This place has some nice salads,” Retasu hums.

“Is that so?” Minto asks. She picks up her own menu, and thumbs through it.

**

Zakuro thinks about the fact that Minto cried in the bathroom at Ichigo’s engagement party. She sits on her couch, waiting for Minto to come see her. She hasn’t moved from this spot in three hours. She showered and then decided to wait in her towel. She is still wet, but she isn’t dripping. She zones out and jumps when she hears the lock turn. When Minto steps in, she smiles. “Excited to see me?” Minto asks, shrugging off her coat and hanging it up. She kicks off her boots, which isn’t very ladylike, but whatever.

“Only if you’re going to get naked.” Zakuro drawls. Minto looks over her shoulder, smiling.

“Okay.” She turns around and pulls her sweater over her head. She didn’t wear a bra today, so all she had to do is take off her pants, underwear and socks. Leaving them on the floor, she walks over to Zakuro and climbs on.

When Minto leans in to kiss her, Zakuro turns her head. “What?” Minto whines. Zakuro frowns.

“When were you going to tell me that you cried in the bathroom at the engagement party?” she asks, not looking at Minto. She makes a huffy noise, leaning away from Zakuro.

“Who told you?” she asks. Zakuro narrows her eyes.

“Does it matter?” Zakuro counters. Minto sighs.

“It was Bu-Ling, wasn’t it?” she asks. Zakuro frowns.

“This isn’t about her. This is about you. Why were you crying?” Zakuro looks up into Minto’s eyes. It hurts, the way Zakuro can see right through her bullshit.

“I was overwhelmed by my emotions.” Minto shrugs. “It happens sometimes.” Zakuro cups her cheek and traces the arc of her cheekbone.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks. Minto bites her lip and shakes her head. The truth is that there is nothing Zakuro could have done to stop it, and this is one of the few instances where Minto was the avoidant asshole in their relationship.

“No,” she says softly, “you’ve done nothing wrong.” Minto presses her mouth to Zakuro’s lower lip, and she opens wide. When two people hunger for each other, there is no point in waiting.

If happiness is a butterfly and depression a miscreant dog, what is contentment? Minto ponders this question as her hands become tangled in Zakuro’s hair. She would like to achieve long-term emotional stability, the kind that would help Seiji sleep at night and allow her to let Mickey’s ghost go. Minto is hoping she can find it in Zakuro. Times like this, where her hands are curled in her hair and her tongue is down her throat, make it feel possible. _I could love you even more than I ever did before. We could make it real_. Minto kisses Zakuro’s jaw, her temple.

After four months, Zakuro is intimately aware of every bit of Minto. Yet, she still feels like she could learn more. Her towel has basically fallen down, but she is more concerned about touching Minto than she is in exposing herself. She kisses Minto’s throat, touching the curve of her waist, the dip of her back, the soft flesh of her stomach. Zakuro tweaks a nipple and Minto sighs, so she does it again.

It’s true that Minto has been struggling recently, even though her life is full of good things. Things don’t seem to be looking up, but they aren’t taking a nosedive, and that counts for something. She doesn’t know what, but she will figure it out. It’s what she keeps telling herself. _I’ll figure it out, I’ll figure it out, I’ll figure it out_. Every day, she says this mantra as if to make it true. There is nothing she wants more than for that to be the case. The bupropion helps. Waking up doesn’t feel like murder and she still has a sex drive, which is not a minor achievement considering the kind of medication she is on.

More than anything, she wants to fill the emptiness inside up to the top, and then dive right into the inner lake that was formerly, her inner emptiness. _Make me full_ , she thinks as she kisses Zakuro, _drown my emptiness_. She kisses Zakuro’s cupid’s bow, and her spine tingles as Zakuro pulls her hips forward. It’s been too long since she has felt taken. It’s her favourite way to orgasm, actually. She likes it when her orgasm is ripped out of her, almost against her will but not actually. Zakuro is the best at it, because she doesn’t hesitate the way other women do. She knows that Minto can take it.

Zakuro sticks two of her fingers into her mouth while Minto makes out with her hairline, and then she presses them against Minto. She starts soft, as always, and becomes firmer with each moan. Minto breathes, open mouthed, into her hair. Zakuro looks up into her eyes, and Minto’s heart jumps into her throat. Zakuro is, and always will be, the prettiest girl that Minto has ever seen. It is surreal that she is riding the hand of her childhood crush, but it feels so much better than the alternative.

How could Minto have ever settled for not knowing Zakuro like this? Five months ago, Minto was content to in her ignorance. Now that she has had her, no other could compare. It is Zakuro or no one. Zakuro hits a spot that makes Minto hiss, so she goes over it again and again. Minto’s tailbone tingles and it is like a deep part of her is trying to climb out of her.

“Turn me inside out,” Minto gasps. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“That’s anatomically impossible,” she deadpans, before taking Minto’s nipple in her mouth. Minto groans, and grinds herself on Zakuro’s hand.

“I don’t care about possible,” she whines. Zakuro doesn’t respond, but she does place her unoccupied hand on Minto’s hip to steady her as she really and truly begins to finger fuck her. Minto leans back and away from Zakuro, looking up at the ceiling.

The inner emptiness is still haunting the edge of Minto’s consciousness. It makes her groan. The sex feels good, but it also feels like a whole lot of nothing.

“I need more,” Minto pants, “it’s not enough.” Zakuro looks up, and for the first time, it registers that Zakuro is sweating.

“You always want more,” she grumbles, nevertheless, finding more to give.

“I just don’t want to feel empty.” Minto pouts. Zakuro freezes and looks up at Minto. She looks up at her rose-y face and big eyes.

“You feel empty?” she asks. Minto knows she should mention her depression. It would be the responsible thing to do. Something like _the sex isn’t empty; I’m just pathologically empty_. But Minto likes her orgasm torn out of her and she likes it when Zakuro gets mad. She wants to feel good more than preserving her relationship.

“Sometimes,” she says coyly. Zakuro blinks.

“Like now?” she asks, “did you feel empty when I was inside you?”

“I didn’t feel full.” Minto lies. Zakuro narrows her eyes.

“I don’t know what to say,” she replies. Her hand is still, more or less, inside Minto. She rocks side to side on Zakuro’s hand.

“Don’t say anything. Make me feel full.” Minto squirms as Zakuro withdraws her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Hitting the pause button,” Zakuro says.

“A pause button? What am I, a fucking DVD player?” Minto growls. Zakuro shrugs and stands up, holding Minto so she doesn’t fall on her ass.

“I can’t believe you!” She shrieks. Zakuro frowns.

“What do you want me say to you? Get on my dick?” Zakuro says. “Do you want me to talk to you like I’m the boss or something?” Zakuro blinks, and then looks at the way Minto rubs her thighs together. “Jesus Christ. Minto, get it the fuck together.”

“Why are you so mad?” Minto asks, crossing her arms.

“Because you felt empty when I was inside of you!” Zakuro raises her hands into the air. Minto puffs her cheeks and keeps herself from retorting that she always feels empty inside.

“I want you to do something about it!” Minto retorts.

“What do you want me to do? Force myself on you?” Zakuro can’t believe that this is a real fight she and Minto are having. This is what she gets for fucking a fan.

“No. I just want you to make me feel like you could, if you really wanted to,” Minto pouts. Zakuro growls in the back of her throat. Minto always creates more work. She doesn’t know why she bothers to go along with it. With other women, Zakuro would simply laugh them out the door.

But Minto? Apparently, she is different. Special. Zakuro rubs her forehead with her hand, thinking. Minto watches her, biting her lower lip. “Get on the couch.” Zakuro says, not looking at her. Minto tilts her head.

“What?” she asks. Zakuro sighs and looks up at the ceiling.

“Did I stutter?” she asks. Minto tuts.

“No.” She twirls and lies down on the couch. Zakuro stands over her, arms crossed.

“Roll over.” She says. Minto frowns and gets onto all fours.

“Why?” she asks. Zakuro sighs, loudly.

“I don’t really want to look at your face right now. If you want me to be the boss, don’t ask questions,” Zakuro comes up behind Minto, kneeling behind her. “If you want me to stop, say so. Otherwise, I am just going to keep going until you’re full. Okay?” Zakuro starts touching Minto again, and she signs, pressing her forehead into the arm of the couch.

Zakuro slides two fingers in and uses her other hand to touch Minto’s clit. Minto lets out a long sigh and sinks onto Zakuro’s hand. It feels nice to be told what to do.

“Better?” Zakuro asks.

“Infinitely,” Minto replies. It almost feels like her body can’t contain Zakuro. It feels nice. She moans again and digs her hands into the couch. Zakuro frowns and keeps going. Minto makes her little noises, chirping and sighing and moaning as she feels like it. She moves with Zakuro’s hand, and her back twitches.

“This feels good,” Minto says, “we should do it like this more often.”

“What does that mean?” Zakuro says, working herself in-out while searching for the softest parts of Minto.

“It means I like it when you act like the man.” Minto calls from over her shoulder. Zakuro sighs.

“That’s awfully heteronormative,” she replies, thrusting her hand forward. Minto shrieks, so Zakuro does it again and again.

“I almost wish you had a dick,” Minto decides to press forward. Zakuro grits her teeth.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because I would jump on it.” She arches her back and stretches, “just like this.” Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“My penis is metaphorical,” she drawls, “and my hands are better than a dick. Want to know why?” Zakuro asks. Minto turns back and nods. Two become three become four, and Minto curses as Zakuro hunches over her back. She reaches forward and under Minto with one hand while the other remains buried in Minto. “But, since you said it was your fantasy, and I’m a good person, how about this: stop complaining and get on my dick, Minto.” Zakuro gives one big thrust, and Minto gets the point. She mumbles curses as she and Zakuro chase each other.

It feels like they are in an infinite loop, but there comes a point when Zakuro finally hits true and Minto feels so full and happy and light that she collapses in on herself, her back curving up as she tries to draw Zakuro’s hands into her. Zakuro bites her shoulder on impulse. For a second, they curve hot and tight into each other. Zakuro starts breathing again first and pulls away gently.

“I miss your dick already,” Minto rolls onto her side, watching Zakuro walk to the kitchen. Zakuro laughs.

“I bet you have never said that to a man,” she says, sticking her mouth under the tap for water. Minto rolls over, still tingling, and sits up on the couch. She touches herself. Now that she has felt fullness, she doesn’t want to let it go.

“Can you bring your dick back here?” she asks in a voice that tries to be sexy but it actually quite desperate. Zakuro turns off the tap and turns around to look at Minto. She smirks.

“I knew you would ask,” she teases, “you’re _thirsty_ , as my students would say.” Zakuro tilts her head and stares at the way Minto touches herself.

“I’m not the only one,” Minto sighs. Zakuro smirks, like _fair enough_.

She decides to treat Minto to her metaphorical dick four more times that night, before she is satisfied that Minto is actually full. 

**

Zakuro looks at Minto, who is picking at salad. They decided to go on a real date tonight, which means they are out for dinner at a restaurant for other young professionals. They sit across from each other. Minto doesn’t look like she is enjoying herself. Zakuro tilts her head, trying to figure out what goes on in Minto’s little head.

“Why do you look like that?” Zakuro asks. Minto frowns.

“Like what?” she squawks. It’s not a very dignified or graceful sound.

“Vacant.” Zakuro replies. Minto blinks.

“I was just thinking about how we talk about nothing.” Minto shrugs.

“Because nothingness is the secret to enlightenment,” Zakuro says. Minto frowns.

“No, I think about why we just seem to circulate emptiness between us,” she says, “we never talk about anything substantial.”

It has never occurred to Zakuro that Minto would crave intellectual and emotional stimulation from her. By now, most women would have figured out that Zakuro was good for sex and little else. Zakuro clears her throat. “It’s my fault. I am pathologically empty.” Minto smiles, because for the first time, Zakuro admits to her own emotional vacancy without weaponizing it against Minto.

Minto holds Zakuro’s hand all the way home after the restaurant, and even brushes her thumb over her knuckles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHELP this has turned into a real bummer. I am indebted to DFW and my own certified miserable person status for a way to speak about depression. Stay safe out there in the age of COVID. Feel free to leave me a comment--I always like to know what resonates with people.


	5. Bunches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t you want to touch me?” Minto asks. Zakuro smiles. 
> 
> They both want each other, the same. 
> 
> CW: Depression. Zakuro's mother makes an appearance, and she is homophobic (however, it is not gratuitous, and there are absolutely no slurs involved).

“How long can you hold your breath”

Grouper, “Fishing Bird (Empty Gutted in the Evening Breeze)”

There are few things worse than when Zakuro’s mother calls and tries to act like a parent. Her mother has many terrible qualities, but her worst is her impulse to try and reimagine the past. She wanted a demure, cultured and obedient daughter. She was supposed to excel in academics and dance, go to college, find a nice man from a rich family and settle down. When Zakuro was scouted by that talent agent, she jumped at the chance to get out from under her mother’s thumb.

Six languages, years of dancing and a talent for becoming whoever people want her to be gave Zakuro a way out. Ironically, she wouldn’t have been able to escape had it not been for her mother’s insistence that she be someone she was not. Her mother helped her become who she is, just not the way she wanted.

There are times when Zakuro feels like she owes her parents a lot, until she remembers that no one asked her to be born. People who are emotionally impoverished shouldn’t have children. Zakuro’s father isn’t so bad, just absent. His greatest crime was leaving her to her mother. Her father was the one who refused to disinherit her when she came out _. Someone has to carry on our name_ , he had said _, she’s our only child_. Zakuro wonders if he would have been so understanding if she had a sibling.

Zakuro is on the phone with her mother, staring at the wall ahead of her. Her parents moved back to Connecticut from California. Her mother is droning on about how much she hates the Pacific Ocean.

“It’s far too peaceful,” she sniffs, “the Atlantic has character.”

“The Atlantic is a real bitch of an ocean.” Zakuro replies. It’s true. No one teaches their child how to swim in the Atlantic.

“Such foul language,” her mother sighs, “all the money spent on your education, and you speak like _that_.” She can see her mother flip her hair over her shoulder and roll her eyes.

“You can’t buy class, mother,” Zakuro drawls, lying down on her couch. “We are, at best, _nouveau riche_.” Minto, on the other hand, is an actual blue blood. If Minto were a man, her mother would be telling Zakuro to throw out her birth control.

But if Minto were a man, Zakuro never would have looked twice at her. It’s funny, how life works.

“You are always so hostile,” her mother says, “who hurt you?” Zakuro snorts. It’s funny, coming from the woman who has tormented her for years.

“Life hurts.” Zakuro drawls.

“What do you have to complain about?” she replies. Zakuro taps her fingers against her stomach, looking at the coffee table. Minto left a tube of blush on it. She says she prefers this kind of packaging for blush, because Minto likes to put it on like paint. Zakuro picks up the tube, and looks at the bright, cotton candy pink.

“Finitude.” Zakuro replies. She finds the best way to deal with these conversations is to say as little as possible and wait for her mother to hang up. Her mother hums in response.

“Speaking of death,” her mother says, “your grandmother isn’t getting any younger. When are you coming back to visit us?” Zakuro wants to laugh. She hadn’t been getting any younger when they committed emotional neglect.

“I’m busy with my research,” she says, “I’m working on a book.”

“About what?”

“Other people,” Zakuro replies.

“Anyone I know?” she asks. Zakuro grips onto the tube in her hand.

“Oh, Montaigne, Levinas, Nancy.” She replies. People that her mother has heard of but never read. Her mother prefers literature to philosophy.

“Mhmm,” her mother hums. “You can still visit. Just do it all on your computer.” Zakuro frowns. Her mother isn’t usually so desperate to see her. “You are my only child.”

“I am keenly aware.” _Thank God no one else has to suffer_.

“You should spend more time with your family.”

“You mean with you?” Zakuro asks.

“Yes. Why don’t you spend time with me?” she asks. Zakuro sighs.

“There are a lot of reasons.” She says.

“Give me your number one.” Her mother says. Zakuro looks at the tube of blush and smiles to herself.

“ _Well_ , I’ve been seeing someone.” Zakuro knows that she is setting herself up for a lot of pain, but like all neglected children, the very potential of motherly love needs to be snatched up. “I want to stick around to see how it goes.”

“Oh.” Her mother says in a stiff voice. Zakuro feels herself wilt, and she frowns.

“It’s new,” she says in a hushed voice.

“What’s he like?” her mother asks. It rips Zakuro apart.

When she came out, her mother had overreacted. Yelling, tears, anger. All the dreams of the perfect life she wanted for Zakuro down the toilet. Zakuro is happy to be out. She likes who she is, and she cannot be any different, and most importantly, wouldn’t change.

“She’s wonderful.” Zakuro says in a soft voice. She isn’t a scared teenager anymore. _Mom, I like girls_. Her mother said _you’re not my daughter anymore_. Zakuro had cried in her bathroom while her parents went out to dinner. “Mom, all you ever do when we talk is make me feel guilty for being who I am. That’s why I don’t visit.” She hears her mother squawking on the phone, but she pulls it from her ear and hangs up. She throws the phone down on the coffee table.

Zakuro opens the tube of blush and puts some on her hand. She rubs it on to her fingers, and after it warms up, she smears it on the apples of her cheeks, smiling to the wall. Her mother always throws off her whole day. _I am you, Minto,_ she thinks. _I am becoming Minto_. She was always telling Zakuro how much she wanted to be her, but that has nothing on how much Zakuro wants to be someone else.

Someone with a nice family and a normal life who isn’t pathologically empty. When the fluffy pink blush is smeared on her cheeks, she looks down at the pads of her fingers. She wouldn’t say she is traumatized, but that is probably because family has a way of convincing you that they never really did you wrong. Families are the only people who can hurt each other, over and over, and still feel entitled enough to demand love and respect.

 _I want you to come home, Minto_. Zakuro feels herself tearing up. _Please, come home now_.

**

Minto’s psychiatrist is always asking her questions about her perception of the world. So far, they have concluded that she sees it as a hostile place inimical to life itself. Apparently, this is not how the sane react to these questions. But what, pray tell, would a sane reaction to this post-millennial hellscape world be? Contrary to Zakuro’s original judgment, she reads a lot of books. Two French philosophers, Deleuze and Guattari, once wrote that insanity is the only sane reaction to living under capitalism, and in another essay, Deleuze claimed that meanness is engendered by the social world, i.e. people aren’t cruel until they enter a civil state that creates the conditions under which meanness can thrive.

So, Minto thinks she is quite sane, actually. If anything, she is a lot more optimistic than most depressed people. She still thinks there is hope, somewhere.

It’s a warm day. Minto feels overdressed in her wool coat. She is wearing one of her little shift dresses, with thigh highs instead of tights. Her coat is open, and she has her handbag over her shoulder. Seiji wears one of his long coats. It is camel. One hand is tucked into a pocket, to keep the wind from completely blowing his coat open.

They are walking in a park, Minto sipping an iced coffee. Seiji accompanies her to all her doctor’s appointments. She wishes that their parents loved her this way, but she supposes it could be worse. She could not have a brother. A truly dark timeline. Minto gums on the straw while Seiji looks around them.

He sips his coffee, looking right at her. Minto stays silent, fiddling with the straw between her front teeth.

“I miss you,” he says, finally. He searches her eyes, and he looks disappointed by what he finds there.

“I’m right here,” she replies. The last thing she needs is to feel guilty for something that is outside of her control.

“I miss who you were,” he says. Seiji looks surprised that he said it out loud. His mouth makes a big ‘O’ shape.

“I’m still me,” she says, looking down at the ground.

“You used to be full of life,” he says, “you had dreams, hopes.”

“Aspirations?” she offers. It’s boring to listen to all the things she has stopped being. “I am who I am, Seiji.” He looks up at her with disappointment.

“All this over a dog?” he asks. “It’s been years.” Minto bites the lining of her cheek.

“I loved Mickey.” She says quietly. Seiji shakes out his head.

“Clearly,” he says quietly.

“At least I can love another being so deeply that I feel like our souls fused.” Mickey was more than just a dog. He was her constant companion, her little friend. Seiji sighs.

“This is all over a dog.” He tilts his head, frowning. “You are projecting. You always have.” Minto blinks, and her eyes sting.

“I want to go home now,” she says quietly. Seiji nods, and he walks her all the way to her apartment door.

**

When Minto goes over to Zakuro’s that night, she can tell that something is wrong. The entire place is dark with the curtains drawn. She takes her shoes off and hangs up her coat. She drops her handbag onto the kitchen table, and pads into the bedroom. She opens the door and pokes her head in.

Zakuro is curled up on her side, frowning at the wall. She is on top of the duvet, which Minto bought after complaining about the old one for four months. It still smells new. Zakuro doesn’t like it because it doesn’t smell like bodies yet. Minto threw the old one out, and they had a big fight about it two weeks ago. Her hair is down and she has a big t-shirt on, nothing on the bottom, not even underwear. Minto walks up to the bed, and sits next to Zakuro, who flops onto her back and looks up at her.

“Hi,” she murmurs. Minto smiles at her.

“Hi.” Minto starts to peel off her thigh-highs but stops when she catches Zakuro eyeing them. “Should these stay on?” she teases. Zakuro pauses, before grinning and nodding.

“I like your dumb little outfits,” she says, opening her arms up. Minto smiles and lies down next to her, huddled up. Minto lays her arm on Zakuro’s stomach, and she sighs on her face.

“My outfits aren’t dumb.” Zakuro snorts.

“I meant it as a term of endearment.” She sighs, looking up at the ceiling.

“You show you care by being rude and good sex.” Minto shifts around, trying to get comfortable. Zakuro hums. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“I spoke to my mother today,” she says, “she always leaves me in a mood.”

“You are always kind of in a mood.” Minto says, turning onto her back. “You are a Byronic hero. You brood a lot.”

“Don’t make me lock you up in an attic,” Zakuro rubs her face.

“You would look really pretty, galloping across the moors in a cloak.” Minto smirks, “maybe that will be my new fantasy.” Zakuro groans in response. Minto always makes everything dirty whenever Zakuro tries to connect.

“I am trying to have a real conversation here.” Zakuro says. Minto sits up, looking down at her.

“Okay,” she replies. “Did something happen?”

Zakuro doesn’t know how she wants to answer that question. The only unexpected things that happened were her telling her mom that she was dating someone and that she described Minto as _wonderful._ Both things are true, she just didn’t realize that this is what they were doing until she told her mother. “My mother doesn’t approve of my _lifestyle_.” She does air quotes, and Minto immediately knows what she means.

“Didn’t know that I am just a lifestyle choice.” Minto says, lying back down.

“She wants me to visit, but I don’t think I ever will.” Zakuro sighs, “you know, the emotional neglect, controlling behaviour and disapproval I could have lived with, but the homophobia is just too much.”

No one knows anything about Zakuro’s family, beyond that they are rich expats. Zakuro has never shared a single story from her childhood, and she doesn’t have any pictures of her family around her apartment. All she really knows about her childhood is that Zakuro likes cheesecake because her nanny always made it with her. The dancing, multiple languages, bourgeois tastes; those are all things that tell Minto a little bit about who her family wanted her to be, but they aren’t baby pictures or stories about embarrassing parental behaviour. Zakuro was always the most socially awkward person in their group. When she was younger, she was usually aloof and nervous around people. Minto has never considered it before, but it makes sense that her parents did something to make her that way. She always assumed Zakuro had an easy life, but the closer they get, the more she realizes that this isn’t the case.

“You don’t talk about your parents. Is that why?” Minto asks. Zakuro shrugs.

“They aren’t people I like to talk about.” She rubs her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking about what her mother said to her on the phone: _you should spend more time with your family_. It’s like being told to spend time with your _would-be_ murderers.

“My brother and I had a fight today,” Minto says. “He wants me to be different.” Zakuro shrugs.

“That’s family for you.” She sighs, “the only people who can tell you that you aren’t enough, and everyone expects you to agree with him.”

“Seiji is different,” Minto says, “he just wants me to be happy.” Zakuro frowns.

“Are you not happy?” she asks. Minto deflates. She isn’t ready to talk about the depression, but she doesn’t want to tell a lie.

“I’m not happy the way he would like me to be.” Minto says. “I didn’t become the person he wanted me to be, and it makes him worry.” Seiji and her parents are indifferent to her sexuality. _A good person is a good person_ , her father said, _don’t date an asshole and we are good_. Minto doesn’t think Zakuro quite meets the criteria for asshole, but she isn’t a completely good person either.

“Family are good at reminding you who you were supposed to be,” Zakuro murmurs, rolling onto her side. She cups Minto’s face, and she notices the blush on Zakuro’s cheeks.

“Did you use my blush today?” Minto touches Zakuro’s cheekbone. Zakuro nods, smiling.

“I missed you,” she says in a small voice. Minto smiles, and kisses her first.

Minto came from a loving family, so she believes that family criticizes you from a place of love and concern. Zakuro’s childhood was emotionally destitute, so she is hyperaware that love is a weapon that parents use to keep their children hostage. _If you loved me…If you really cared…Why can’t you be who I want you to be?_ No matter what she achieves, Zakuro always feels like a disappointment.

When she is inside Minto, for a few minutes, she feels like maybe she is the person Minto insisted she was. But it never lasts for long. Not for the first time, Zakuro thinks her attraction to Minto is based on who she sees her as. It’s kind of addictive, knowing someone loves and affirms you with such conviction. Zakuro decides to take the lead, and she rolls Minto onto her back.

Minto squeaks, but Zakuro swallows it. She is one of her hungry moods, where she will consume anything, whether it be food or drugs or people. She used to inhale people when she was in England. It makes her feel powerful. Kissing the underside of Minto’s jaw, Zakuro squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think about her childhood. Like most super rich kids whose parents assume obscene wealth is a suitable replacement for actual parenting, Zakuro doesn’t know what to do in the face of genuine love. It’s why she doesn’t really understand why other people matter. She never had anyone to rely on. There wasn’t a single soul who she could trust to (a) be there and (b) to have presence that wasn’t even more destabilizing than their absence.

Zakuro hums as Minto pulls the shoulders of her shirt. “Off,” she huffs. Zakuro stretches up tall and pulls her shirt up. Minto sits up on her elbows, fascinated by the way her ribcage pokes out of her skin. Zakuro sinks back down onto her heels, and she hovers over Minto. She reaches under her dress, and pulls her underwear down, leaving her stockings up on her legs, untouched.

“Should I get naked?” Minto asks. Zakuro shakes her head.

“I like you as you are,” she whispers, pushing Minto’s dress up to her waist and descending upon her. If they could create the world between them, Zakuro is sure that Minto would be the primeval mother, the source of all matter. Minto is substance. Zakuro is convinced that while she may be alive, she isn’t present the way Minto is.

Zakuro doesn’t ever really get sad, not like Minto. She just swallows it all up like she isn’t real. Her entire career is sublimation. She creates so she doesn’t have to be with herself. That’s what she sees in all patriarchal figures in myth; men who didn’t know how to be with themselves, so they made things to compensate. _I want to make a baby with you_ , she thinks as she presses her mouth to Minto, who lets out a hiss. _Then I won’t have to think about myself anymore_.

Her fingers accompany her, as they explore the well-trod ground that is Minto. There is no part of her that has been left untouched or unexplored. Minto squeezes her eyes shut as Zakuro moves inside of her. Her nipples poke painfully against the lace of her bra, and she wishes she had gotten naked anyway. She wiggles against Zakuro’s mouth, drawing her in further. _I want to swallow you,_ she thinks _, with one mouth or another, and carry you inside me_. It’s a perverse thought, but life is nothing without perversion. Minto lets Zakuro have a gasp as a reward for treating her so right.

Zakuro likes how Minto tastes. She could spend a lot of time down here, but she can tell that Minto wants it hard and fast and to the point. She grins against Minto, as her chin and hand rub together as she hooks her other hand around Minto’s thigh. She pulls back, so Zakuro presses forward. Like this, it feels like they are finally fused into one being and Zakuro relaxes. She feels whole.

But time moves forward and so does she, as she reaches towards more and Minto grabs the back of her head and coils around her. One, two, three: _boom_. Minto opens herself, and Zakuro comes back up to cover her. Minto wraps her legs around her waist, and Zakuro’s spine tingles at the way her thigh highs rub her lower back.

“Wow,” Minto says. Zakuro kisses her, and Minto smiles. She feels loved, even though she doesn’t think Zakuro has the courage to say it. Zakuro pulls back and smiles into Minto’s eyes, just because she can. “You’re so close tonight,” she says, “is this what you hold back?” Zakuro searches Minto’s eyes, her mouth twitching.

“Yes,” she replies.

“Why?” Minto asks, tilting her head to the side. She tightens around Zakuro, like she is trying to ensnare her.

“Because I have a lot of feelings, most of which I try to avoid,” Zakuro murmurs. Minto’s heart soars, because, those feelings are for her.

“I make you feel this way?” she asks. Zakuro nods. “Do you like it?” she asks. Zakuro bites her lip.

“It’s overwhelming, to be honest,” her voice is soft, and Minto ignores the way Zakuro sidesteps the question, in favour of reveling in the fact that she makes her feel so much.

When Minto finally gets naked, she repays the favour tenfold. All doubt is dead at their feet. They haven’t used their words, but they know that they are in love.

**

Zakuro lies on her stomach, chin propped on her elbow, looking at her computer screen. Minto sits on her back, rubbing her shoulders. They are both naked, and they are trying to find something to watch. They want to watch a dumb kids show, they just don’t know what.

“Didn’t you like _Sailor Moon_?” Zakuro asks. Minto frowns.

“ _Sailor Moon_ isn’t dumb,” she sighs. “It’s about girl power. I am Sailor Venus, and you are Sailor Mars.”

“Technically, you would be Mars because you joined Ichigo before me, and I am Venus because I joined the group last. I acted alone and everything, just like her. I’m even an idol, too,” Zakuro says. Minto runs her fingers through her hair, making her sigh.

“But you are more like Mars.” Minto says, “you have her spunk.”

“She antagonizes Sailor Moon the way you make fun of Ichigo,” Zakuro sighs as Minto lies down on her back. Minto presses her chin onto the crown of Zakuro’s head. She wraps her arms around Zakuro’s neck, and she lets gravity press her down onto her back.

“But I am all about love and you are better at fighting.” Minto kisses the side of her head. Zakuro snorts. “Besides, I love Roman myth, and my love would definitely defeat your adversarial streak.”

“You are really dedicated to the whole Mars and Venus thing.” She says. “You know what could be fun to watch?”

“What?” Minto asks, kissing the side of Zakuro’s face. She wrinkles her nose, turning away from Minto.

“I used to watch _Naruto_ all the time in America,” she says. Minto laughs above her, tucking her face into Zakuro’s neck.

“ _That_ is a stupid show.” Seiji and Minto used to watch it when they would smoke pot and eat tons of junk food.

“It’s true. It is a dumb show with a stupid premise and a nonsensical storyline, and really, the whole thing is ludicrous and offensive in so many ways,” Zakuro drawls, beginning to list the points on her fingers: “latent fascism, two-dimensional female characters, aggressive heterosexuality to cover for all the homoeroticism, every other motherfucker on the show is a genius, which is so far from real life. But the characters are all so _deeply_ likable, even the horrible, poorly constructed ones.” Minto sits up, laughing.

“I had no idea that you would like something like that,” she says. Zakuro grins.

“I’m a lesbian but Kakashi could get it.” She hums. Minto cackles at that one.

“You know, I always thought Yamato was sweet,” she says, still laughing. “But there are like, no women on that show.”

“See? Homoeroticism abounds!” Zakuro exclaims. Minto reaches over her head and closes the laptop. She gets the message, and Minto gets up on her knees as Zakuro rolls onto her back. “You know, when I was in America, I watched _Naruto_ to remind me of Japan, and when I watch it in Japan it reminds me of America.” Minto hums, tracing a circle around Zakuro’s nipple.

“Which character do you most relate to?” she asks. Zakuro touches her tongue to the back of her teeth.

“Honestly, none of them.” She presses her tummy up into Minto. “Naruto is my favourite, but that’s probably because he reminds me of Bu-Ling.”

“Hm,” Minto says, “you’re kinda like Neji. Really pretty, horrible family, super smart and physically strong but emotional underdeveloped.”

“That’s kind of rude,” Zakuro frowns. Minto smiles.

“He’s the prettiest character and a genius. You’re still coming out ahead.” Minto leans down and kisses Zakuro.

“I’m still _kind of_ offended,” Zakuro sighs. Minto hums.

“You’re offended because it’s true.” She kisses Zakuro deeper, and she begins her futile quest to climb down into Zakuro’s throat.

**

Never, in her life, has Minto figured out how to deliver big news without some sort of dramatic declaration. Her father and mother are always over the top. Flowers at every recital and graduation, speaking in theatrically grave voices for every bit of bad news, even trivial things like not having time to go to the movies. Zakuro has acclimated to Minto’s petty dramatics, but it still makes her uneasy when Minto barges into her apartment with a frown on her face.

Like now. Zakuro is in the middle of marking, when Minto walks into her apartment, a sullen look on her face. Her hand is stuffed in her pocket, and she doesn’t bother taking her coat off before walking into the kitchen. Minto takes the bottle out of her pocket, setting them down on the countertop in front of Zakuro. She watches her eye the orange and white bottle, before looking up at Minto.

“What’s that?” she asks. Minto bites her lip.

“The pills I take every morning.” Minto is tired of hiding it, sneaking into the bathroom, hiding them in the bottom of her purse. Zakuro blinks.

“What for?” she asks. She has her suspicions, but Minto should be the one to tell her.

“I take them for clinical depression.” Minto says. Zakuro tilts her head.

“How long?” she asks. Zakuro knows enough to know that there is no _why_. Depression just is.

“It started with Mickey died,” Minto says. “The world felt dark and empty with him. I quit dancing, I moved around France. I spent a few years wanting to die.” Minto tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Mine is treatment resistant, but this medication has been helping.” Zakuro nods.

“I liked Mickey. He was a good dog.” She says, before turning back to her computer. Minto blinks. She wasn’t expecting a dramatic reaction or anything, but she expected something more substantial.

“Don’t you have any questions?” Minto asks, “concerns?”

“Should I?” Zakuro drawls. Minto stomps her foot.

“I don’t know, maybe!” She retorts. Zakuro raises an eyebrow. She kind of likes Minto’s vicious moods. They are entertaining.

“Call me when you have the gun,” Zakuro replies. Minto scoffs.

“You are such an asshole.” She puts her hands on her hips. Zakuro gives her an impassive look, evidently bored.

“I’m not going to fawn all over you and make you feel like your chronic mental illness defines how I see you or makes me see you as less of a person. I am obviously concerned, and I am glad that you are finally being honest with me. But this doesn’t change how I see you. It just tells me more about you.” Zakuro stands up and walks around the table to where Minto stands.

Minto watches her approach, and she crosses her arms. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” Zakuro responds. She looks right at Minto, the way she does when she is thinking about how deeply _right_ she is about something. Zakuro always has conviction. It’s one of the things that attracts Minto the most.

“Do you have any questions?” she asks. Zakuro tilts her head.

“I only have one request.” She says. Minto frowns.

“A request?” she asks.

“Just one,” Zakuro murmurs. “You have to tell me when things are bad. I can’t read your mind.”

“You just want me to use my words?” Minto smirks, “I talk all the time.” Zakuro looks her right in the eyes, with a look that pierces through her heart.

“How long where you in treatment before you told me?” Zakuro narrows her eyes. Minto opens and closes her mouth, stunned. Zakuro breaks her stare and walks over to the sink to wash her hands. “I’m not mad. I just want you to know that I want to be there for you, but I can only do that if you tell me what’s happening.” She turns on the sink, while Minto walks up behind her.

“Okay.” She says. “I’ll tell you.” Zakuro nods.

“Good.” She pumps some soap onto her hand. “What do you want for dinner?”

“An egg. Some rice. Broccoli would be nice.” Minto has been better at eating, but she still isn’t great. Zakuro nods. She silently begins to prepare the rice. Minto pulls the eggs out of the fridge and thinks about what it would mean to be reborn.

**

If it weren’t for Minto, they all, quite easily, could have ended up wearing some truly heinous bridesmaids’ dresses. Instead of whatever frothy, lacey dress Ichigo would have chosen, they will all be wearing swishy silk dresses. There are straps and a nipped in waist, but the dresses are sleeker than Ichigo’s dress. She wanted them to wear colors that corresponded to their Mew Mew outfits, but Minto told her that would be gauche, so Ichigo chose a pretty dusty pink.

Zakuro is swirling the champagne in her glass, looking at Minto being fitted for her dress. She sits between Ringo and Bu-Ling. Ringo and Retasu are talking about their jobs. Bu-Ling is asking Ichigo all sorts of vulgar and invasive questions about her sex life, as Berry nods along and smiles every so often. Zakuro looks up at Minto, not even trying to hide her interest.

Minto has a delicate waist and defined shoulders. She turns her back to Zakuro, her Mew Mark peeking up above the back of the dress. Zakuro smirks as she takes in the back of her neck, the twin slopes of her shoulders, the line of her spine. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes up.

“Ichigo, do you spit or swallow?” Bu-Ling asks. Ichigo spits out her champagne and the seamstress keeps her head down as she pins Minto into her dress.

“What?” Ichigo asks. Berry twirls a lock of blonde hair around her finger, humming.

“Do you spit out Masaya’s semen, or do you swallow it?” Bu-Ling asks, drawling out the words just to embarrass Ichigo.

“What if he ejaculates on her face?” Zakuro asks. Bu-Ling sloshes her champagne as she cheers.

“I forgot about that possibility.” Bu-Ling turns to Ichigo, blinking rapidly.

“Do we really need to know?” Retasu asks, trying to peacefully intervene. Zakuro makes eye contact with Minto in the mirror. They exchange a smirk.

“I want to know.” Bu-Ling says, “c’mon, you’ve been together _forever._ You must have a routine.”

“It is none of your business!” Ichigo exclaims. “What happens between Masaya and I, stays between the two of us.”

“You are _such_ a prude,” Minto drawls, looking right into Zakuro’s eyes with the mirror. “I’m a lesbian, and even I’m curious.”

“Why?!” Ichigo exclaims, her face turning bright red. Retasu and Ringo are wincing with second-hand embarrassment. Minto shrugs.

“It’s been over a decade. One dick forever seems boring, but maybe Masaya’s is special.” Minto looks at her cuticles, speaking in a coy, bored tone. Zakuro shifts in her seat, watching her intently. Minto blinks, and looks back into Zakuro’s eyes. “Maybe I’m missing out.” Zakuro knows that Minto is saying this to get a rise out of her, but that doesn’t stop her jaw from clenching or her eyes from narrowing.

Ichigo squeals and covers her face with her hands, and Bu-Ling interprets this to be an admission of guilt. “I knew you swallowed,” she says, “you’re too obsessed with him not to.” Bu-Ling pokes Zakuro’s side. “Right?” Zakuro smirks.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t suck dick. Never have, never will.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. Bu-Ling smiles.

“But let’s say you really, really loved a girl, to the point where you followed her across the world and were with her for over a decade. You would swallow, right?” Bu-Ling asks. Zakuro looks away from Minto, tempted to say _I do swallow_. But this isn’t how people should find out.

“I would, I guess.” Zakuro says, “I think it’s hotter if you swallow. I don’t know if you and Masaya care about that, but I do. I would want my partner to know how much I want her. That’s why I swallow.” Zakuro directs this to Ichigo, but judging by the blank look on her face, Minto knows that it is for her.

“I swallow,” Berry says in a nonchalant voice. “It’s fun. You’re missing out Ichigo.” She sips her champagne. “Retasu, Ringo?”

“Why aren’t you asking me?” Bu-Ling exclaims. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“Because you obviously do.” She says. “Minto?”

“Yes?” Minto says in a tight voice. She is determined not to blush. She turns around, so that she and Zakuro make direct eye contact.

“Spit or swallow?” Zakuro asks. A beat passes, and their friends starts to look between the two of them. Retasu and Berry are doing the math, but Bu-Ling and Ringo are blissfully ignorant. Ichigo is too busy trying to get her dignity back to notice anything.

“Swallow.” Minto says in a delicate voice. Zakuro smirks.

“Good answer.” She replies, sipping her champagne. “Retasu, Ringo?”

As the conversation turns, Minto studies Zakuro’s jaw, and thinks about how badly she wants to run her tongue along it. As it turns out, none of them are quitters (which is what Bu-Ling calls spitters).

**

After the fitting, they go to a wine bar and Minto drinks two glasses of white wine in addition to the glass of champagne at the dress shop. She is tipsy. Delightfully so. Minto can’t stop thinking about the way Zakuro confronted her in the dress shop. She has had butterflies in her stomach since. She is lying on the bed, while Zakuro is in the bathroom, washing her face.

Minto looks over on the bedside table, and notices Zakuro’s lip gloss on the bedside table. She presses her lips together, trying not to grin. She stands up and peels off her dress. She walks over to her dresser and picks out a matching set of underwear. It’s inky blue lace, and the bra is unlined. Minto peels off her cotton panties and bra, throwing them into the hamper. She pulls the underwear up over her hips, and then clips on the bra. It digs into her skin, which makes her boobs look good and her ribs hurt. Minto pads across the room, picking up Zakuro’s lip gloss, and then she walks into the bathroom.

She barges in as Zakuro splashes water onto her face. She is wearing a pair of shorts and a billowy white tank top. Minto waltzes over to the lip of the full bathtub. She perches on it, staring up at Zakuro. After drying her face, Zakuro turns to look at Minto. She smiles when she sees the she is in her underwear.

“Did you change your underwear for me?” she asks. Minto nods, unscrewing the cap of the lip gloss.

“Mhmm,” she hums. Zakuro tilts her head, watching as Minto takes the wand out of the tube.

“What are you doing?” Zakuro asks, watching intently.

“Just watch me,” Minto coos. It strikes Zakuro that this is probably going to be a cliché seduction. Minto isn’t the most creative. She makes up for it but being very good at sex.

She opens her mouth in a small ‘o’. She takes care to make eye contact with Zakuro, blinking innocently. Minto takes the wand and covers her lower lip with gloss. She closes her mouth, rubbing her lips together. She keeps her face neutral, watching Zakuro bite her lower lip. When she is content that her lips are evenly coated, Minto closes the tube, screwing it tight. She sets it on the back of the toilet, with a small clink.

“Are you finished?” Zakuro asks. Minto grins.

“No,” she says in a light voice. Zakuro tilts her head. Minto, believing to have put Zakuro into checkmate, opens her legs and slips her hand into her underwear. The tendon in Zakuro’s neck rises, but she is determined not to blink.

“Oh,” she replies.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Minto says, smiling. Zakuro peels off her top, and then her shorts. She folds them neatly and puts them over the lip gloss on the back of toilet. Zakuro walks over to the edge of the tub and gets down into the warm water. “Are you going to do anything?” Minto whines. Zakuro smirks.

“I am going to take a bath,” she replies.

“Don’t you want to touch me?” Minto asks. Zakuro smiles.

“Not right now,” she straightens her legs out, grinning. “If you’re so horned up, you are just going to have to touch yourself.” She crosses her arms. Minto narrows her eyes and stands up. She unclasps her bra and steps out of her underwear, leaving them on top of Zakuro’s clothes. She then turns around and steps into the bath, opposite of Zakuro.

“I didn’t say you could join me,” Zakuro drawls. Minto shrugs.

“It’s my bathtub.”

The bathtub in Zakuro’s apartment is tiny, so whenever she is at Minto’s place, she likes to take a bath. Minto doesn’t understand her insistence on modest living. She sighs as she relaxes into the water, Zakuro watching her intently. Minto smirks, and puts the bottom of her foot on Zakuro’s knee, opening herself up on purpose. Running her hand down, Minto sighs as she feels her fingers against herself. Zakuro’s eyes are dark and unreadable, the way they get right before she gives it to Minto hard.

“So, if it isn’t on a nice apartment, what do you put all your money into?” Minto asks, as if she isn’t masturbating in front of Zakuro.

“Tax havens,” she replies.

They sit in silence for a minute. “Are we going to sit here and pretend you aren’t masturbating?” Zakuro asks. Minto, who is turning pink, shrugs.

“Do you want me to be loud?” she asks. Zakuro sighs, deciding to admit defeat.

“I want you.” She says simply.

“I _want you_ to be specific.” Minto hums. Zakuro clenches her jaw.

“I _want you_ to show me that you aren’t a quitter,” Zakuro says. Minto grins, and climbs over, sitting on top of Zakuro. Zakuro wraps her arms around Minto’s waist, not a bit put off by the greedy look on Minto’s face.

“You don’t need to ask me twice,” Minto smiles, leaning in to press her mouth to Zakuro’s upper lip. Their kiss is relaxing, deflating all the tension between them. Minto pulls back, taking Zakuro’s face in her hands. Zakuro allows her to tilt her face up towards the ceiling. Using the tip of her tongue, Minto traces the long, deep arch of Zakuro’s jaw, from left to right. Satisfied, she pulls back and smiles. Zakuro gives her a deeply unimpressed look. “What?”

“You’re just so thirsty.” Zakuro says. Minto makes a whining noise in the back of her throat as Zakuro kisses her shoulder.

“I just like you a lot!”

“What’s a lot?” Zakuro kisses up her neck, and she moves her hand down to the place between Minto’s legs.

“Like, I like you more than I have ever liked any man,” Minto says. She has been with some good ones. Not enough to make her want one forever, but still. “Honestly, you are better at fucking than any man I have been with.” Zakuro traces her familiar circle, and as she presses down into the soft flesh of Minto, she thinks about how badly she wants to be the best, full stop.

“It’s not hard to be better at sex than a man,” Zakuro moves two fingers in, and Minto yips. “I want to be the best person, period.” She has a tendency to get aggressive when she wants to get her way. She’s like that in her work; she grabs an idea by the throat and refuses to let it go until she has had her way with it. Not for the first time, Zakuro thinks she is incredibly lucky to have met Minto. They are both singularly intense when it comes to sex.

“Fuck,” Minto sighs. “You already are.”

“Let’s make sure.” Zakuro hums.

Minto kisses her as Zakuro moves up and against her. The water sloshes around, and Minto bites Zakuro’s lower lip as the heat builds up in her tummy and the backs of her thighs. Zakuro hopes she draws blood. When she is this deep in Minto, it feels like they cannot be close enough. Like, the deeper she gets the closer she wants to be. Minto yelps, but she rocks onto Zakuro’s hand like her life depends on it. It makes Zakuro smirk, knowing that Minto wants her so bad that she will essentially use Zakuro’s hand to fuck herself. It’s flattering.

Minto sits up, her arms around Zakuro’s shoulders. It feels speedy, like everything is going too fast but time is also slowing down, and all she can see is Zakuro’s face, looking up at her like she is the only person to have ever existed. _I want to have your babies_ , Minto thinks, which is a dumb thought for several reasons, but she holds it close anyways. Zakuro’s thumb moves side to side, and Minto sees stars. It’s like Zakuro reaches up through her guts and grabs her liver, when she makes her come like this. Minto kisses Zakuro’s face, all over, thinking to herself that this is what it means to be a human being. Was she even a person before Zakuro? In all honesty, she doesn’t think so.

It builds and builds, until Minto rocks forward as Zakuro jerks into her, and she lets out a small cry that makes Zakuro glows from her insides. Getting water everywhere is worth it, all for that noise. Minto sighs as she rests on Zakuro’s lap, unsure of where to go from here. Her tummy feels tight, and there are little zaps moving through her. She taps her fingers on the back of Zakuro’s neck.

“That was fun,” she murmurs. Zakuro smiles.

“I’m the best, right?” she grins. Minto rolls her eyes and scoots off her lap. Zakuro frowns. “Why won’t you answer?” Minto shrugs.

“Because I want to repay the favour.” Minto taps her fingers against the edge of the tub.

“How so?” Zakuro asks. Minto smirks.

“Sit on the edge of the tub and I’ll show you.” Minto says in her prim voice. Zakuro blinks at her, which makes Minto’s eye twitch. “What?”

“Tell me that I am the best.” Zakuro says. Minto sighs.

“Why does it matter? You clearly are,” she says. Zakuro sighs.

“It’s not true until you say it,” she gets the closest she can to a whine, and Minto makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat.

“Fine. You are the best,” she says, “and you are so good that I want to have your babies.” Zakuro tilts her head to the side, blinking.

“My babies?” she asks. Minto huffs.

“Yes, your babies.”

“You know that’s physically impossible, right?” Zakuro asks. Minto splashes her with water, and Zakuro grins.

“Then don’t make me want to carry your babies!” Minto’s voice is shrill, and Zakuro throws her head back and laughs. Minto stands up, as if to get out of the tub. Zakuro moves fast.

“Where are you going?” she asks, her hand around Minto’s ankle. She looks down at Zakuro, who suddenly has a serious expression on her face. Minto frowns.

“I didn’t like that you were making fun of me.” She crosses her arms. Zakuro sighs and releases Minto, leaning back against the bathtub.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” she says, “but even you have to admit that it’s funny.”

“Carrying your babies isn’t _funny_ ,” Minto says, “that’s not why I said it.” Zakuro nods.

“I know.” Using her arms, Zakuro pushes herself, sitting on the lip of the tub. Her legs fall open, and the way Minto looks at her doesn’t escape her notice. “Still mad?”

Minto shifts, thinking. Is there anything to be upset about? Not really. “Should I repay the favour?”

“There is nothing to repay,” Zakuro says softly. Minto steps forward, settling on her knees before Zakuro.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m a quitter.” She winks, and Zakuro laughs. Minto leans forward and rubs her thumb against Zakuro. She sighs and presses into Minto, and for a while, no words pass between them. Minto just looks up at Zakuro, who is looking down at her.

When Minto finally puts her mouth to her, Zakuro hisses. When they are with other people, it is hard to believe that this is the kind of thing Minto likes to do in her spare time. She comes across as the kind of girl who prefers to be the passive partner, letting things be done to her. However, that is not the case. She is the only partner Zakuro has had who can match her in terms of want, i.e. thirst. They have never had the problem of one wanting more while the other wants less. They both want each other, the same.

Minto looks up at Zakuro, with her big eyes and pink face. Zakuro, in a moment of tenderness, gently runs her hand along the top of Minto’s head, searching for the soft place along the nape of her neck. Zakuro cracks herself wider and Minto presses forward. When she slides her tongue in, Zakuro closes her eyes and hums. Zakuro never wants to get pregnant, but if it were possible, she would let Minto knock her up. She would never say it, but the thought is there.

As she gets closer and closer, Zakuro’s humming grows ragged and punctuated by smalls gasps. The cold lip of the tub is digging into her, but she doesn’t mind. There is something building inside of her, like all the heat and light she has ever experienced is building up in her core. Every good feeling she has ever had, every orgasm is humming within her, making her curve around Minto like a cage. She lets out a little shriek, and like that, the feeling hits, and then leaves.

Zakuro pants, feeling the aftershock of being seared from the inside. She looks down at Minto, who wipes her mouth with her thumb.

“I’m not a quitter,” she drawls. Zakuro swallows.

“I never said you were.” Using her arms, she pushes herself off the ledge and back into the water, which has grown cold. Minto scoots out of the way, and Zakuro opens her arms when she reclines against the tub. Minto stands up, looking down at Zakuro, who is open to her.

“I’ll see you in bed,” Minto replies, hoping out at grabbing a towel. Zakuro grunts and drops her arms back in the tub.

The water is cold, and Zakuro watches a spider crawl on the ceiling. _Same_ , she thinks, _same_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is an update. Things are picking up at work and school, so it will probably be awhile before I can update again. I've been listening to a lot of sad girl music while writing this and Storms, lol. Feel free to leave a comment, and stay safe out there in the age of COVID!
> 
> I few references: I read a lot of Deleuze and Guattari and David Foster Wallace for my thesis, and it translates to my fan fic. The line "call me when you've got the gun" is right from Lynne Koplitz's "Hormonal Beast" routine.


	6. Dutch Braid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes twenty minutes for it to end.
> 
> CW: Passive thoughts of suicide/death, depression, non-consensual touching.

“I’m just a ghost you walk right through”

Sufjan Stevens, “All of Me Wants All of You”

There comes a point in ever dark-haired girl’s life when she thinks about dying her hair blonde. It is usually at the onset of some deep existential crisis, when changing one’s hair color appears to be the only way to right one’s path in this life. Minto looks at herself in the mirror, her hair down. Zakuro is sitting on the toilet, filing her toenails before she paints them. She chose electric blue. It’s the color Minto uses on her own nails. They use the same products so that it feels like they are together even when they’re not.

“What if I went blonde?” Minto asks, fiddling with a lock of hair. Zakuro snorts.

“Why would you do that?” she asks. Minto frowns in the mirror.

“Because it could change my life.” She huffs. Zakuro smiles to herself.

“You think a new hair color is a replacement for inner reflection and a genuine change in worldview?” Zakuro bends even further, trying to reach her baby toe.

“We can’t all be you,” Minto replies, “and I think it would be fun.”

“It will look ugly. That’s what every girl with dark hair discovers when they bleach their hair.” Zakuro sighs. It kinda hurts, filing her the nail on her baby toe, but beauty is, first and foremost, pain. Or, at least, the sacrifice of comfort.

“But men will like me more,” Minto says, running her hands through her own hair. Zakuro clicks her tongue.

“You want a man’s attention?” she asks. Zakuro has never been attracted to men. She doesn’t understand the hype.

“It’s nice, being desired when you both know that they can’t have you.” Minto says. “It’s my kink.”

“Blue balling men.” Zakuro states, looking up at the grin on Minto’s face.

“You should try it sometime.”

“No thanks,” Zakuro replies. “Don’t bleach your hair for men. Men don’t like blonde hair because it looks good. They only like it because they are conditioned to want to wrap blonde hair around their fist.”

“That’s dirty,” Minto replies.

“That’s why I said it.” Satisfied, Zakuro sits up and rolls her shoulders. “I like your hair, it’s glossy. It looks good around my fist.” Minto blushes, but recovers herself quickly.

“Aren’t you hip and different.”

“No,” Zakuro replies, “I just like you as you are. And processed hair breaks easily. Trust me, we will both be happier if I don’t break all your hair off.”

“Dirty!” Minto squeals. Zakuro smiles and picks up the bottle of nail polish.

_That’s why I said it._

**

Ichigo sips on her bubble tea, sucking up the tapioca pearls in big glugs. Minto wrinkles her nose. She loves Ichigo, but her best friend never learned how to consume things like an adult. She has no idea what men see in Ichigo, although, Minto doesn’t think she wants to. She sips her own tea, and Ichigo tilts her head at her.

“I haven’t seen you drink bubble tea in forever,” she says. Minto shrugs.

“Eating isn’t so hard anymore,” Minto says, “I’ve started jogging.” She goes alone and listens to all the sad music she normally reserves for her pity parties. It does make her feel better, but it hasn’t cured her depression.

Ichigo nods, but she still looks at Minto strangely. “Is there something happening between you and Zakuro?”

“Why do you ask?” Minto drawls, looking at her straw. Ichigo shrugs.

“You two just seem to be spending a lot of time together.” She says, “I mean, you always liked her.”

“Zakuro doesn’t like me,” Minto replies, “not the way I liked her.” Minto knows that they are in love, but she can’t claim victory just yet. They don’t really discuss their relationship in direct terms. They are always too busy having sex or taking swipes at each other.

“She was looking at you like she _like-likes_ you at the fitting,” Ichigo sucks on her straw. Minto crosses her legs and tries not to blush. She is still a little ashamed that she told Zakuro that she would have her babies, if she could.

“You should ask her how she feels about me,” Minto sniffs, “she doesn’t tell me anything.” Ichigo wrinkles her brow.

“So, you two are having sex but you don’t talk?”

“Not about the big things,” Minto replies. “I’m shallow and she’s empty.”

“That’s not true,” Ichigo frowns. Minto would give anything to see the world the way Ichigo does: like it is a place full of boundless possibility.

Minto shrugs and sips her bubble tea instead of challenging her. Depression is good at making you think it has shown you the truth of the world. But her medication is kicking in, and Minto is ready to entertain the possibility that her depression has been wrong this whole time. But she isn’t ready to let go of being depressed.

**

Retasu is the kind of person who is very good at making you feel really sorry when she tells you off for being dumb. It’s a talent that Zakuro wishes she had for herself. It’s like Retasu can just talk people into seeing sense and apologizing.

They are in a department store, looking through some of the gifts on Ichigo and Masaya’s wedding registry. They are looking at a table display. Zakuro watches Retasu pick up a plate and look at the gold around the rim.

“Ichigo has expensive taste,” Retasu says quietly. Zakuro snorts.

“Minto put the registry together,” she says. She had been in bed, reading a book as Minto explained, in mind-numbing detail, all the household items Ichigo and Masaya were lacking. Who needs nice plates and silverware when it feels like the apocalypse is ever-looming?

“That makes much more sense.” Retasu replies, setting the plate back down on the shelf.

“It feels wasteful buying a present,” Zakuro says, “they want to live ethical lives, but I am pretty sure their bourgeois wedding is undoing all of their recycling and conservation work.” Retasu looks up at Zakuro thoughtfully.

“Minto’s vision always comes through.” She says. Zakuro smirks.

“It really does.” She puts her hands in her pockets, looking around the store. “Minto will probably get mad, but I’m just going to give them money.”

“Money is always appreciated.” Retasu hums, picking up a wine glass. “I don’t know why you think Minto will complain. How would she ever know?”

Retasu sets the glass down and looks right into Zakuro’s eyes. _Retasu knows_ , she thinks, _shit_. It’s not that Zakuro doesn’t want people to know that she is seeing Minto; it’s just that she would have preferred for people to accept their relationship without comment. She doesn’t want it to change anything. _We probably shouldn’t have played the whole ‘spit or swallow’ game_.

“She has ways,” Zakuro says evasively.

“She is a catch,” Retasu says, “smart, pretty, funny…”

“Your point?” Zakuro asks. Retasu runs her pointer finger on the rim of a wine glass.

“You don’t have to hide it,” Retasu says, “but if that is your plan, you will break her heart.” She gives Zakuro a hard look, crossing her arms.

“Minto doesn’t have a heart,” Zakuro deflects. When they were younger, Retasu would back away from conflict. But they aren’t teenagers anymore, and Retasu is a good friend.

“That’s not funny,” she says softly, “did she tell you about France?”

“She’s mentioned it,” Zakuro hums, “but nothing specific.” _Beyond her dead dog and soul crushing depression_. “You have to admit, it is kind of funny that she is the depressed one when her life is easy.” Rich, pretty, supportive family, never bullied. Of everyone Zakuro has met, Minto has the easiest life. Retasu frowns at her comment.

“That’s an insensitive thing to say,” she replies. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“Well, that’s life.” She wishes Minto were here. Zakuro knows that she hates to be babied like this. She’s depressed, not broken.

“Do you love her?” Retasu asks.

“What?” Zakuro’s mouth twitches. She loves Minto. But she isn’t at the point where she is capable of admitting it. Perhaps she never will be. Zakuro has this selfish hope that sharing cosmetics and hot sex will be enough for Minto, but she knows that it isn’t. Minto isn’t vacant, not like Zakuro.

“You heard me. Are you in love with Minto?” Retasu asks again, her voice dropping in pitch, the only sign of her irritation.

“I decline to answer,” Zakuro replies. Retasu frowns, but to Zakuro’s relief, she doesn’t say anything more.

**

Minto is in her bathtub, curled into fetal position, thinking about dying. She isn’t thinking about killing herself: there are no fantasies of barbiturates or benzodiazepines, razors or bullets. With her temple pressed to the enamel of the tub, Minto entertains what her therapist would call ‘passive thoughts of death.’ They are not suicidal ideation, in the sense that Minto isn’t thinking about inflicting the deathblow. Rather, she wonders if, perhaps, somewhere in her ribcage, a little tumor is growing in a lung or on her liver, maybe her pancreas. In her fantasy, it will grow and grow, only to be discovered in its late stages, preferably inoperable and/or metastasized to her brain.

Zakuro’s voice is in her head, calling her stupid and selfish and evil for fantasizing about developing the kinds of diseases that all but guarantee pain, anguish and suffering, even if the patient survives. Minto bumps her temple against the rim of the tub, trying to knock out Zakuro’s voice, which has morphed into her brother’s voice, who is now listing all her flaws, both big and small. Like, it’s gross that she is fantasizes about getting cancer but the impulse to die isn’t a problem. She sighs. Even though she knows it’s her brain, the twisted logic of depression has a way of convincing you that any desire to live is a foolish impulse.

 _I want to live_ , she closes her eyes and thinks, _I very much would like to live_. Something she has never told anyone, not even her therapist, is that she makes little deals with herself. Like: _I will kill myself after I accomplish X or attend X_. She isn’t dead yet, so it is an effective system. She always finds that when she gets to X, there is always another X to keep living for _. I will die after Ichigo’s wedding_ , she thinks, _and not a moment sooner_. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism, but it does its job, and the voices subside. She opens her eyes and stares into the middle distance.

The medication helps but it doesn’t cure anything, so much as gradually correcting all her fucked up neural pathways. Living is less painful. But the impulsive and intrusive thoughts of suicide still come. She knows, logically, that these things come in cycles and that she needs to wait them out. But logic has nothing on the raw, primal fear that this could be how she has to spend the rest of her life. It’s like the anxiety of waiting for the final thought that will push her over the edge is worse than the pain that thought will inflict.

Fantasizing about death is, for Minto, really a fantasy about control.

She sighs and slumps back against the tub. Minto takes in a deep breath, and slide under the cold, grimy water. She opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling. She hears a muffled sound, and as she blinks up, she sees Zakuro’s face over hers.

Minto doesn’t know what she expects, but she feels a burst of hope in her chest when she sees Zakuro. Like maybe, just maybe, someone will come and actually pull her from the abyss. She hasn’t felt that kind of hope in a long time. It says something about her feelings for Zakuro, that she trusts her to judge when she needs help.

But Zakuro told Minto to use her words for a reason. Zakuro had come into the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she sees Minto in the tub, staring up at her, she doesn’t see it as anything serious. Just Minto being Minto. Looking more dramatic than it actually is. Zakuro blinks down at her, and walks away, over to the sink. She puts toothpaste on her toothbrush and decides to brush up in the kitchen, to leave Minto to do whatever she needs to do. Zakuro doesn’t look back as she closes the door.

Another ten seconds pass, and Minto bursts up, gasping for air. Water drips from the tip of her nose and glues her eyelashes together. Her hands grip the edges of the tub, and she looks at the closed door. Rationally, she knows that Zakuro probably thought she needed some privacy. But if the roles had been reversed, Minto would definitely have some questions.

Not for the first time, Minto asks herself what she actually wants from Zakuro. She thinks she wants love, but she suspects that what she is actually looking for is someone who will pull her up and out of herself. Zakuro didn’t know better, and Minto really should learn to use her words, but nonetheless, being left underwater with the twin feelings of hope and despair is a passive violence that was, previously, unfathomable. This crushed-up-right-in-the-ribs feeling is infinitely worse than passively wishing for death.

**

Berry picks at a croissant. She likes to eat off the crisp, outer layers before peeling the buttery insides apart. She places them flat on her tongue before sucking back on them. It’s inelegant. But because she picks at her food like a bunny and has platinum hair, people attribute elegance to her, founded or not.

Zakuro watches Berry eat. She can feel how her face feels pinched, but she doesn’t know how to relax it. She keeps thinking of Retasu’s words: _you will break her heart_. Zakuro knows that she is emotionally vacant, but that doesn’t mean that she likes having it pointed out. Berry tilts her head and sips her coffee.

“You seem faraway.” She says, “you’re looking at me, but you aren’t really here.” Zakuro blinks and tries to relax her face.

“I’m just thinking,” she says. It doesn’t help that Minto has been weird lately. For the last few days, she has kept to her side of the bed, leaving early for work and coming back late. Zakuro has been trying to figure out why she is upset. She keeps coming up blank.

It has Zakuro on edge. She has never not been able to make Minto happy. She chews the edge of her thumb, something she hasn’t done since she was a girl. Berry’s mouth twitches.

“What?” Zakuro asks.

“You’re biting your thumb.” Her voice is soft and even. “I have never seen you do that before.” Zakuro drops her hand back down to her lap.

“It’s an old habit,” she says. “I do it when I’m stressed.”

“Is the book not going well?” Berry asks. Zakuro frowns.

“The book is itself.” Zakuro shrugs. “Retasu just said something that upset me.”

“Retasu hurt your feelings?” Berry asks. “How?” Zakuro sighs and crosses her legs. She braided her hair today, and she pulls it over her shoulder. She plays with the end of her braid. “You don’t fidget either.”

“She pointed out my inability to be vulnerable.” Zakuro says. She still can’t say _I love you_ ; she has tried sounding out the words, but they get stuck in her throat. “That it inevitably ruins my relationships.” Berry picks up another flake of pastry and places it on her tongue like a tab of acid. Zakuro smirks at the idea of sweet, demure Berry taking acid. _It would make her interesting_. That’s the kind of catty thing Minto would say.

“She’s not wrong,” Berry hums, “you’re the first to admit to your emotional limitations. Why does it bother you now?”

Zakuro considers telling the truth. That she is in love but doesn’t know how to say it. But she swallows the truth with a shrug and reaches for her coffee. “I have a sensitive disposition,” she drawls. “I don’t like it when others point out my flaws.” Berry sighs.

“If you insist.” She replies. Zakuro doesn’t react when the coffee burns her tongue. She simply smiles.

**

Minto has been trying to masturbate for forty-five minutes. But just at the moment where it all aligns, she finds herself pulling back. So, she fingers herself until it hurts, before she finally gives up. She lies back on her couch, naked and painfully aroused, looking up at the ceiling. This isn’t the medication or the depression’s fault. This is all on her.

She has been thinking about the fact that Zakuro was able to leave her in the bathtub while her head was underwater. She has been avoiding her, not because she is mad, but because she looks at Zakuro and feels empty. _You left me_. What is there to do, now that Minto knows how it will end between them? Zakuro will walk out the door one day, and she won’t come back. She’ll probably do it when she realizes that Minto is drowning on the inside. Zakuro might even push her head under, like a mercy killing.

Rolling onto her side, Minto curls into fetal position and thinks about whether or not she should get up and clean herself off before Zakuro comes home. Minto doesn’t even really know if she wants Zakuro to see her naked, let alone come into the apartment and find her aroused. Minto sits up and hits herself in the face with both hands. Palms flat and fingers outstretched. _Does this count as self-harm?_

She hears the door unlock, and she only puts her hands down when she hears Zakuro step inside. Zakuro’s hair is still in a long braid, and she is wearing one of her short shift dresses. She slips her sandals off, and Minto meets her gaze when Zakuro turns to stare at Minto.

“Hi,” Minto says. Zakuro does a very good job of acting like it is normal to come home and find Minto naked on the couch.

“Happy to see me?” Zakuro puts her hands on her hips and stands by the door. Minto stands up and walks to the kitchen. Zakuro watches her hips swing, biting her lip. This is the longest they’ve gone without sex. The heartless part of Zakuro thinks, selfishly, that she would rather be single than in a sexless relationship, even if Minto is the love of her life and her soulmate (neither are things she believes in).

“Ecstatic,” Minto deadpans. “How is Berry?” Zakuro shrugs.

“She’s fine. Still blonde, still working in diplomacy, still fucking Tasuku.” Zakuro smiles. “So, why are you naked?” Minto’s face remains indifferent at her suggestive tone.

“I was masturbating.” She walks past Zakuro, and into the kitchen. Her Mew Mark glimmers, and it makes Zakuro’s tummy tight. She wonders if Minto misses being a bird the way Zakuro misses being a wolf. It was nice, having an animal inside of her. It made Zakuro feel less lonely.

Minto turns around and leans against the countertop. She crosses her arms and stares at Zakuro.

“I’m upset with you.” She finally says. Zakuro tilts her head.

“Why?” she asks. _Because you left me to die_ , Minto thinks to herself.

“You walked away when my head was underwater.” Minto replies. Zakuro blinks.

“You were in the bath.” She replies. She knew that she had missed something, but she doesn’t understand how it could be this.

“My head was underwater!” Minto replies, and I was looking up at you to pull me out.” _Make me feel something other than despair_. It’s all Minto wants. To have genuine emotion that isn’t attached to the medication.

“You weren’t drowning.” Zakuro fails to see how she did anything wrong by leaving Minto underwater. She wasn’t drowning, and most importantly, she didn’t drown. “I can’t read your mind.” _I don’t know if I want to_ , she thinks, looking at Minto’s affectless face. Zakuro is a little unnerved; usually, when she has upset someone, it is usually evident. But Minto doesn’t look like she feels anything. As if she were merely talking about being upset, without actually feeling that way. To be honest, it is chilling. Zakuro wants Minto to come back from wherever she is. She would take shrieking and grimacing and crying over this mask, this husk that is Minto but isn’t really.

“How do you know?” Minto asks, “I always feel like I am drowning.”

“Well, that’s different,” Zakuro replies. “Why do you feel like that?” Minto lets out a cruel laugh, and it tinges one of Zakuro’s nerves.

“Because there is nothing inside me,” she says, “absolutely nothing. I am drowning in nothingness.” Zakuro cocks a hip and rolls her eyes. These are the petty dramatics she expects of Minto.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being obtuse,” Minto counters. “You lack emotional intelligence.” Zakuro sighs.

“You knew that before we got together.” She crosses her arms and waits for Minto’s next move. One of the benefits of learned emotional vacancy is that it is actually very hard to hurt Zakuro with a direct attack. She can thank her parents for that particular life skill.

“So?” Minto says, “it doesn’t excuse the fact that you refuse to see me.” Zakuro twitches. Minto is actually all she can see. Despite her emotional walls, it hits something inside of her. It makes Zakuro angry to hear Minto talk about her like she has no feelings for her, like she doesn’t care.

“I didn’t push your head under the water, and you didn’t keep it there. Clearly, you want to live.” Zakuro walks up to Minto, her eyes narrow. Minto feels the spark of something in her stomach.

“That’s not the point,” she replies. It’s not a feeling. Rather, it is arousal. Not the dull kind from earlier, but the acute kind.

“I knew you weren’t going to kill yourself.” Zakuro says. She believes, firmly in her heart, that Minto doesn’t want to die and that she is far from that point. She is beginning to see the little spark of Minto behind her eyes. “What do you want me to do, treat you like a child?”

Minto looks into Zakuro’s eyes as she ponders the question. How does she want Zakuro to treat her? Maybe that has been the question all along. Over the past few months, she finds herself attracted to the small bits of tenderness that Zakuro is capable of, but she can’t ignore the fact that she fell in love with her asshole tendencies. Minto looks up at Zakuro, bare as always, and turns her back to her, setting her forearms on the counter. She needs to be taken out and shoved back into her body, rebooted, and she thinks sex will do that. Besides, it is the only time the two of them are capable of getting along. It’s why they do it all the time.

Minto doesn’t think they have anything without sex. Sadly, Zakuro is beginning to feel a little differently, although she doesn’t know how to name it. Minto looks over her shoulder and pouts.

“I want you to hurt me.” Her voice is soft, and expression begins to return to her face. It’s like she has come back.

Zakuro’s relief doesn’t mean that she isn’t angry. She grimaces, and Minto gives her an unimpressed look.

“You want me to have sex with you after telling me that you’re drowning?” Zakuro asks. Minto narrows her eyes.

“Are you suddenly concerned?” Minto asks.

“Don’t you want me to be?” Zakuro asks. Minto shrugs.

“I don’t think you are capable.” Minto says. She uses a soft voice, as if it would change what she is actually saying. Zakuro clenches her jaw.

“Why are you with me, if I can’t pay attention to you the way you need me too?” Zakuro’s fists clench. “Why are you asking me to have sex with you, when you don’t think I can take care of you?” Minto blinks.

“Because I want to hurt.” She watches Zakuro’s stance soften.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says, still angry.

“You already have,” Minto looks at the wall in front of her. Ivory tile. She has such a nice kitchen. It’s a shame that she never uses it.

Zakuro feels something roar up inside her. It’s not that she angry. She just feels…provoked. Zakuro sets her mouth into a mean line, and steps forward. She goes to kneel down behind Minto. When Minto turns to look back at her, Zakuro glares.

“Don’t look at me,” she says. Minto turns to face the wall. She sighs when she feels Zakuro’s fingers moving against her. It does hurt, a little bit. A little stinging never hurt anyone. She cracks herself open, and Zakuro leans in. Minto’s tummy tightens as she braces herself for Zakuro, and she isn’t disappointed by the way her mouth moves against her. Minto touches her forehead to the counter. Her nipples are stiff against the cool marble. She tenses her entire body; her legs, arms, stomach, feet and hands. The tension makes her feel like she is in control, and the resistance will help make it hurt. Minto wonders how Zakuro will overcome the inherent tenderness of giving head.

Zakuro puts a hand on the front of Minto’s thigh for support as she tries to get to the bottom of Minto’s sadness. It’s impossible, this she knows, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. When this first started, she told Minto that this wasn’t going to work out. Now, she wonders if she cursed their relationship in that moment. Perhaps, if she had said nothing, they wouldn’t be in this position. She slides her tongue against Minto, and frowns to herself when she feels her clenching. It’s not the fun kind. Rather, it the kind of clenching done when someone doesn’t want to be touched. Zakuro knows because she has endured a truly frightening amount of unwanted touching. Not sexually coercive, but all that forced contact did a number on her ability to be close to people.

Zakuro closes her eyes and thinks about what makes her really and truly angry. She hates adults who pick on children; who force them to give kisses, who hug them when they don’t want to be held, adults who force their ideas of love and affection onto their children instead of actually listening. She moves sharply, and Minto gasps, but Zakuro is so faraway that she can’t hear it. Instead, she’s five, and her mother is brushing her hair against her will and making her spine tingle. She’s seven, and she is forced to kiss her uncle on the cheek, even though she doesn’t want to, and he makes her uncomfortable. Now she’s eleven, and her mother is pinching her waist and sighing at her changing body. Now she is fourteen, an idol, and everyone touches her, at fittings, press events, fashion shows and photo shoots. All this endless, unwanted touching.

Now, she wants to be touched, and the person she wants it from won’t give it to her. Zakuro uses her fingers, lips and tongue to dig a miserable orgasm out of Minto so she can leave. She keeps her eyes closed, and she can’t hear Minto over the roaring in her ears. _I wish it had never happened_ , she thinks, _I wish I had never been touched the way I was_. Maybe then, women wouldn’t seek her out for emotional self-harm. Maybe Zakuro would be normal. Maybe, in that world where she was left untouched, she and Minto would be happy.

With that thought, she doubles down and Minto shrieks. She doesn’t think Zakuro has been able to hear her for the past ten minutes. It’s like she has just been sucking until there is nothing left. It feels so good that it hurts, but it has now crossed the threshold from fun pain to actual pain.

“Fuck! Zakuro!” Minto stands up and breaks away. Zakuro looks faraway, but she comes too quickly. She blinks, looking up at Minto.

“Did that hurt?” she asks. Minto blinks.

“Yes,” she replies, “it really did.” Zakuro stands up and walks over to the sink. She turns the tap and starts to wash her hands. Minto crosses her arms, waiting for an apology that will never come.

“I’m going home now.” Zakuro says, turning off the tap and drying her hands on her dress.

“You’re leaving me?” Minto asks, her mouth hanging open. Zakuro gives her a blank look.

“Not forever,” she says, “just for tonight.” She walks over to the door and picks her tote bag off of the ground and slides her sandal back onto her feet.

“Why?”

“Why would you want someone who hurts you around?” Zakuro shoots back. Minto freezes. She hasn’t seen Zakuro this angry in a very long time.

“Did I do something wrong?” Minto asks. Zakuro breathes in and closes her eyes, reminding herself that she values this relationship.

“Sometimes, you make me feel really angry.” She says. Minto frowns.

“At least you can feel something.” Minto retorts. Zakuro blinks.

“Then feel _this_ ,” she replies. Zakuro opens the door and slams it with enough force to create a breeze.

**

The next day, Minto walks all the way to Zakuro’s apartment. She calls her when she gets there, holding her phone up to her ear. When Zakuro comes down the stairs, Minto notes that she is wearing sweatpants and a sports bra. She looks irritated. Zakuro doesn’t bother trying to hide it _. I really fucked up_ , Minto thinks. As a rule, Zakuro is someone who hides how she feels. Minto has a sinking feeling that this will be the end.

“Hi,” Zakuro says, holding the door open. Minto smiles, but it isn’t returned. She follows Zakuro up the stairs and then into her apartment. There are books all over, everywhere, and Minto can tell that she has been rotating between the same three spots in her apartment.

“Sorry for the mess,” Zakuro says. “I’ve been writing all day.”

“It’s okay,” Minto replies, “I wanted to come over and see how you were doing.” Zakuro’s mouth twitches.

“I’m feeling things.” She drawls, walking over to a cabinet. She pulls out a glass and fills it with water.

“Oh.” Minto says. Zakuro doesn’t dignify it with a response. Minto listens to her gulp all her water back, looking around the apartment. A day ago, she wouldn’t have any problem walking in and flopping on the couch. Now, she feels like she doesn’t belong. “How’s the book?”

Zakuro places the glass in the sink and turns to look at Minto. She wipes her mouth with the side of her hand, considering her response.

“Terrible,” she says. “I am pretty close to just giving up.”

“Why?” Minto asks. She has never known Zakuro to give up on anything.

“I just don’t know why other people matter,” she sighs, “I just need to accept my emotional deficiencies and come up with something better.”

“Why do you want to accept your limitations?” Minto asks. “You’ve never accepted them before.” Zakuro sighs.

“Because it’s the easy way out.” One thing about getting older that no one tells you about is that you increasingly look for ways to get shit done rather than pursue an aimless quest of self-improvement.

“Well, answer this question first: why me?” Minto asks. Zakuro blinks at her, wondering why Minto wants to make this about her.

“I’m not going to use our relationship to figure out a philosophical question.” Zakuro says, rubbing her temples.

“Why not?” Minto asks, “the question is high stakes, so why not use something important to you?” Zakuro rolls her eyes, biting back the _now you think you’re important to me?_ It would be rude. But man, it would feel good to say. _That’s not a good sign._

“When you love something, you avoid looking at it critically.” Zakuro drawls, “most things don’t hold up to critical scrutiny.”

“Wow,” Minto says, “so you don’t think our relationship would hold up to your critique?” _That_ hurts.

“It’s not a critique,” Zakuro shrugs, “I just like compartmentalize my personal and professional lives.” But, if Minto really wants to do this, Zakuro will. She just has no right to complain if she doesn’t get the answer she wants.

“Humor me.” Minto says, brushing Zakuro off. “You want to know why other people matter, right? So, answer it on the micro level. Why do you fuck me, instead of other people?”

Zakuro tilts her head and doesn’t even think her answer over. “You’re available.” It’s the truth, for her at least. She doesn’t mean it in a mean way, just a factual one. They were both unattached and horny at the same time, and they fell together. That is the logic of their relationship. Anything more complex, like love, is beyond Zakuro’s comfort zone.

Minto wasn’t expecting a good answer, but she didn’t expect that answer. Rooms are available; people are not. Although, considering their relationship, it would make sense that Zakuro would see Minto as a vacancy, waiting to be furnished and decorated. A temporary apartment before she moves onto something better. _I’m definitely still depressed_ , she thinks. Euthymic people don’t compare themselves to vacant rooms.

“I can tell you why I have sex with you.” Minto decides to be a little brave. Not a lot, but more than she would like to be. “I think I love you.” Zakuro blinks at her.

“Think?” she asks. Zakuro is impressed that Minto could even admit to the thought. Zakuro cannot and will not, admit that she is in love. It would wound something in her, to admit to such vulnerability. To allow herself to be tender and soft. Zakuro isn’t cold, the furthest thing from; inside, she runs hot, she doesn’t know how to express it, so it stays inside, protected from everyone. _Perhaps I really am a waste_ , Zakuro runs the tip of her tongue along the inside of her teeth.

“I say think, because I don’t want to commit to anything more than the thought, that I love you.” Minto holds her hands in front of her, fidgeting with her fingers. Zakuro doesn’t move towards Minto. Rather, she hangs back, crossing her arms.

“I don’t know what to say,” Zakuro says.

“Answer the question. Why do you have sex with me?” Minto finds that she really, really wants Zakuro to tell her that she matters, in some way. She knows you can’t make people responsible for your self-worth, but she just needs to be told that she is important to Zakuro. _Just love me._ It’s all Minto wants. She doesn’t even think it would be that hard.

“I don’t want to,” Zakuro states. “It shouldn’t happen like this.”

“Well, when will we talk about it?” Minto says. “When will we talk about what we mean to each other?”

“When you apologize.” Zakuro deadpans.

“For what?” Minto shrieks, “what do I have to apologize for?”

“For saying that I don’t care for you.” Zakuro says, “for making me hurt you. For constantly withholding from me, and then getting angry when I can’t read your mind.”

“I don’t blow up at you, Zakuro!” Minto shrieks. “I just want you to see me, and you don’t look unless I tell you too.” She sighs, “don’t you want to look at me?”

Zakuro’s lower lip trembles. It is the only sign that she feels anything. On the inside, Zakuro is reeling. The truth is that, all she can see is Minto. She paints her nails to be like her, wears her blush and lip gloss to feel closer to her. _How can you not see it?_

“You’re all I look at,” Zakuro says quietly. Minto opens her eyes, wide, hopeful. _Love me, love me, love me_. Maybe this is it. Everything she has been waiting for. _Make me a person_. “Minto, I don’t want to talk about it.” Minto frowns.

“You don’t want to tell me how you feel?” she asks in a small voice.

“I don’t know how.” Zakuro says. The thing between them doesn’t die. Rather, it falls from a great height. It lies, broken on the ground. Minto blinks, rapidly and nods.

“Okay.” She says in a small voice. “I’m leaving.”

“For good?” Zakuro asks.

“Yes.” Minto says. “I am going for good.” Zakuro nods.

“Do you want your stuff?” she asks. Minto sighs, rubbing her forehead.

“I’ll call Ichigo. She can pick it up and drop your stuff off.” Minto crosses her arms, shrinking.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

It took twenty minutes for it to end.

**

The next day, Minto wakes up in one piece. All things considered—she has suffered worse. Living with depression, she has had days where she wakes up and every part of her hurts. That was years ago, but those days are in her memory. She went to sleep afraid that breaking up with Zakuro would trigger her depression, but that doesn’t appear to be the case.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but any sign of things not getting worse is a reason to celebrate.

It doesn’t hit her until lunch rolls around and her stomach hurts, that she and Zakuro are over. She takes her phone and goes to the bathroom. She doesn’t cry, but she does sit on the toilet and call Ichigo. After two rings, she picks up.

“Minto?” Ichigo says, “what’s up?” Minto blinks, hugging herself.

“Zakuro and I broke up.” She says in a small voice. “I really, really miss her.”

“When did this happen?” Ichigo asks. Minto can hear her scrambling on her end of the phone. She works from home.

“Yesterday.” Minto digs the nail of her right hand into her left arm.

“Well, why? What happened?” Ichigo asks. Minto blinks.

What happened? _Zakuro told me that she couldn’t talk about how she feels about me. That she won’t even try, not even for me. Zakuro blinked at me and held back when I told her that I think I love her. I am so afraid of her hurting me that I can’t commit to more than the thought._ These are all correct answers.

But Minto just starts crying. Like, ugly crying. “Minto…Minto where are you?” Ichigo’s voice is distant, but Minto inhales enough air to stop her sobbing.

“Can you come get me?” she asks, “I can’t be alone, and I can’t be here.”

“Okay,” Ichigo replies. “I am going to come get you.”

Minto waits for Ichigo outside the gallery, and when she sees her, she runs over and jumps her. Minto doesn’t start crying, but Ichigo does have to talk her into getting up and walking back to the cab. Minto spends the ride with her head on Ichigo’s lap. When they get back to her apartment, Ichigo starts a bath while Minto changes out of her clothes. Ichigo goes to buy Minto groceries while she soaks in the tub.

After she comes back from putting away the groceries, Ichigo walks into the bedroom to find Minto on her side.

“Minto?” she asks, “are you ready to talk?”

“No,” Minto says in a soft voice. “But I have to, don’t I?” Ichigo walks over and lies down beside her.

“You don’t have to do anything.” She smiles. Something inside of Minto shifts, and breaks.

“I love her,” she says, “and I think she loves me too, but she is too scared to say it.” Minto rolls over and looks up at Ichigo. “Am I not worth being brave for?” Ichigo opens her arms and embraces Minto.

“You are worth so much more than being brave enough to say, ‘I love you,” Ichigo murmurs. Minto crawls onto Ichigo and sobs.

**

Zakuro has refused to process the last forty-eight hours. Instead, she has done her best to repress all of it. She packed up all of Minto’s things in a box and removed the blue nail polish from her toes. Zakuro has thrown out all the dumb trinkets Minto bought to make this place more like her own: all the luxury candles, ugly throw pillows and glossy magazines, sent down the garbage chute. Zakuro had stuck her head in after those lumpy garbage bags. They clanged on the way down, and each thud, when they all landed, only made Zakuro feel empty.

Zakuro sits on her couch, drinking a glass of boxed wine. Ryou sits next to her on the couch. He brought some over, even though it tastes disgusting, because she specifically mentioned craving something that burns on the way down. Zakuro is cross-legged, looking into her wine.

“Want to talk about it?” Ryou asks.

“No.” Zakuro says. He smirks.

“Not even a little bit?” he asks.

“Not one bit.” She replies, “we are going to sit here and drink this box of wine and watch a movie.” Ryou blinks, tilting his head at her. In all their years of friendship, he has never seen her react this way to a girl. Usually, Zakuro would not call back, or be accused of emotional unavailability, and would shrug and move on. She has never been driven to drink.

“You know, it’s okay to admit that you care about someone.” Ryou swirls his glass of wine. “Other people make life worth living.” Zakuro turns and frowns at him. Ryou laughs. “Okay, okay. Let’s watch the movie.”

He picks up the remote and presses play. By the end of the movie, Zakuro is passed out on her side, and Ryou is asleep, the side of his face pressed into her hip. He gets mad when he wakes up with indentations from the rivets and belt loops of her jeans on the side of his face. She shrugs and lies on her side, until he sighs and makes breakfast.

**

It’s been two weeks. Zakuro still showers, but it’s a struggle. If she didn’t put it into her calendar, she wouldn’t do it. Zakuro sits on her couch, staring at the notebook on her lap _. Why do other people matter?_ She has been playing a word game all over the page. You start with one word, and then change one letter to make a new word. You can’t repeat a word, and each time you go, it has to be an actual word. She prefers to play the game in English.

She looks down at the page. She has:

PLAY

FLAY

FLAT

FAT

FATE

DATE

DARE

CARE

CORE

MORE

LORE

LORD

LARD

BARD

BIRD

Zakuro stares at her list. She could add more, but she doesn’t feel like it. She sighs, trying to avoid thinking about Minto’s question. _Why me?_ It makes Zakuro’s lungs constrict and her heart thump when she thinks about Minto’s big eyes and tiny voice. It’s an intrusive thought, making her cringe whenever it pops up, which is frequently.

She sighs, and looks up at the ceiling, deciding to take Minto’s advice. To answer the question of why other people matter, answer it in its simplest form: why her, specifically? Zakuro tilts her head, trying to name the thing she was trying to chase down in Minto. She can be honest about this: she wanted something that she believed to reside in Minto, and Minto alone. There is a troubling specificity. Zakuro is convinced she will only feel this way about one person, who is now gone.

Closing her eyes, she visualizes Minto. Her delicate ankles, pretty collarbones, the shell of her mouth. The dumb face she made when she was indignant, the way she would glow when Zakuro showed her a bit of affection. She thinks about the way Minto touched her, like Zakuro was soft and worth protecting. No one else ever cared for her safety as much as Minto.

If she had to answer, Zakuro wouldn’t say that she was in love with Minto, because the truth is more profound than that. Minto made her into a human being. With others, she was always the concept of Zakuro: scholar, model, idol, pretty, silky hair. While Minto undeniably liked all those things and wouldn’t look at Zakuro twice if she didn’t have them, Minto went deeper. Towards the end, it was more than either of them could have anticipated.

Zakuro bobs her head, before looking down at the page before her. _You can only be a human being because there is another human being who, through their love and care, makes you a person_.

She swallows, big. _The truth is, Minto, you made me a person. That’s why I chose you_.

**

Ichigo, like most women who are in their mid-twenties and the first of their friends to get married, wants to do every associated gimmick and cliché. Minto, ever obliging, hosted a pre-game before they all went out to a big club. Ichigo is wearing a short, pink sequin dress, a tiara and a sash that says BRIDE in big, magenta letters. Minto, in her own, much more tasteful dress, wears a sash that says MAID OF HONOR.

Minto was panicking the entire pre-game. Her guts felt bubbly, and Ichigo and Retasu kept asking her if she was okay. She kept snapping and nervously tidying up after Bu-Ling. Every time the door opened, she would freeze and look up. Zakuro never showed up, but Bu-Ling did call her and put her phone on speaker. _Where the fuck are you?_ Bu-Ling had squealed, four glasses of champagne in. _I’m busy_ , Zakuro had drawled, _I’ll see you at the club_. Bu-Ling had cheered obnoxiously and jumped onto Minto’s couch, narrowly missing kicking Ringo and Retasu in the face.

Minto has been pacing around their booth, too anxious to go dancing or drink. Zakuro still isn’t here, and she thinks it would be best to be sober and at the table when Zakuro arrives. She wants the first time they see each other to be controlled. She frowns and looks over onto the dancefloor. Berry and Ringo are in one corner, talking to a cute guy. Bu-Ling and Ichigo are dancing like fools, and Retasu is desperately trying to keep them under control.

She doesn’t see Zakuro walk up into the booth. Minto simply turns her head, and suddenly, Zakuro is beside her. She’s wearing her black cigarette pants, and a navy silk scarf she tied into a halter top. Her is in one of her high ponytails, and she is wearing a tiny silver hoop in each ear. Thanks to her painfully sharp memory, she knows each item of clothing Zakuro wears, how to put them on and take them off, as well as their care instructions. It hurts just as much knowing that the scarf is something she bought in Paris on a whim as it does to see how good she looks wearing a scarf as a top.

“How are you?” Zakuro asks in cool voice. Minto chews the lining of her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she replies in a sharp voice. Minto turns her attention back out to the crowd. If they hadn’t broken up, Zakuro thinks she would have pulled on the dumb sash around Minto’s waist and told her that she, under no circumstances, would let either of them be caught dead doing something as pathetic and bourgeois and heteronormative as this. She supposes she could, but Minto would hate her for it.

“Don’t you want to know how I am?” she asks. Minto sighs.

“Not really,” she doesn’t turn to look back at Zakuro.

They stand there, not speaking, for what feels like an hour but is only a minute. Zakuro had been busy; she has been writing for the past few weeks, and if it weren’t for teaching and running, this would be the first time she left her apartment for anything but groceries. Bu-Ling says she is boring, Ryou tells her that she is sublimating. Whatever it is, Zakuro can say, with confidence, that she thinks that she has changed. If you know why one person matters to you, you are able to appreciate the rest of humanity.

Zakuro turns to face Minto, bracing herself for her wrath. “Minto,” she says, “I have something to say to you.” Mirroring Zakuro, Minto faces her, tilting her head to the side out of habit. Zakuro looks at the side of her neck and tries not to think about the days when she was allowed to put her mouth on Minto’s throat.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I miss you.” Zakuro says. Three small words, for something so big.

“Missing me isn’t enough.” Minto bites her lip. “It’s not enough for me.” _I deserve more_. Zakuro sighs and closes her eyes. She doesn’t know why she expected Minto to make this easy.

“ _Fuck_ , Minto, I am trying.” The frustration is evident in her voice. Minto narrows her eyes. She doesn’t understand why Zakuro is acting like she is the one who was wronged. It wakes up the anger, the grief that been restrained by Minto’s anxiety. She puts her hands on her hips and puffs her cheeks.

“For once, your bare minimum won’t help you,” Minto says, “you aren’t pretty or smart enough to treat me like you do.”

“And how do I treat you?” Zakuro replies, leaning in. Minto huffs, refusing to be dazzled.

“You treat me like I should be honored that you even speak to me, let alone touch me.” Minto says, “you treat love like it’s something that has to be continually earned instead of freely given. You’re miserly,” Minto hisses.

 _Is that what she really thinks of me?_ Zakuro frowns. Because she has spent the last few weeks thinking of nothing but Minto’s nice qualities. Her loyalty and dedication to those she cares about. The way she kicks out in her sleep. That she is the kind of person who will buy her best friend her wedding dress and wear an ugly sash because Minto believes that her friends deserve the very best. Zakuro supposes that, in comparison, she didn’t bring anything but orgasms and emotional stability to the relationship. 

But she is here, and she told herself that she would try. Which means, Zakuro is going to tell her how she feels. “You helped me understand why other people are important.” It’s no _I love you_ or _you made me into a person_ , but Zakuro would prefer to say those things outside of a nightclub.

Minto feels like she has been slapped across the face. All the emotional pain that Zakuro has caused her, and she chooses to apologize by reminding Minto what she did for Zakuro. _What did you ever do for me?_ She covers her face with her hands and makes a strangled noise.

“What?” Zakuro asks. Minto’s hands fall from her face, and she blinks.

“What do you mean, what?” she asks.

“You look angry,” Zakuro says. She makes a puzzled expression, like Minto had started speaking a different language.

“Of course, I’m angry! All you’ve done is tell me what I do for you.” Minto raises her hands, as if to make herself look bigger and therefore, more intimidating.

“I think you’re overreacting,” Zakuro says. Minto sees red. “You’ve taught me a lot about myself, and I wanted to answer your question: why you.”

“So, you choose to fuck me because I make you feel a certain way?” Minto hisses. Failing to see the problem, Zakuro nods. “Well fuck, isn’t it so great for that I am here to teach you things you should already know. I’ll send you an invoice for my services!” Minto walks over to the table and grabs her clutch and an open bottle of champagne. She’ll text Retasu to pick up her credit card at the end of the night.

Not looking back, Minto weaves through the crowd, pushing to the door. She gets out, and immediately flags down a cab. When she gets in and gives him the address, it takes her a second to realize that the cab driver hasn’t asked her about the open container. Looking around the night, at all the lights, Minto lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a big sip. It’s flat, but it still tastes better than nothing.

And the only thing nothing tastes better than is Zakuro’s attempt to win her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait for an update. Stay safe in the age of COVID!


	7. Top Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has to change (and everything does).

“Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time”

Phoebe Bridgers, “Funeral”

Minto stands back from the dancefloor, watching Masaya spin Ichigo around in her frothy dress. They both look unbearably happy. It makes Minto’s stomach churn. She is sipping champagne, doing her best not to look at Zakuro. She’s been doing a very good job. Minto may be in love at Ichigo’s wedding, but that doesn’t mean she’s happy. She has spent the whole day avoiding Zakuro. Their fingers brushed when she gave Zakuro her bouquet, and it made something inside her twitch.

Love has made Minto more pessimistic about her future. She can now cross meeting her soulmate off her bucket list. She is no better for it, but at least she knows that she was right at the age of twelve. Minto lifts her champagne to her lips, taking another baby sip.

She looks at Masaya, and his dumb, handsome face. He is a generic kind of pretty, lacking all qualities that could make him interesting to look at. It’s like ugliness is absent from his face, and without it, his beauty is forgettable. How he caught Ichigo’s eye and held her attention for so long is a mystery to Minto. She has never looked at a man who didn’t warrant a comparison to a bowling trophy. The kind that are won and donated to a charity shop, collecting dust until they are finally thrown back into a landfill. Such is the life cycle of the lowly bowling trophy, and the life cycle of men.

Pick your trash, your bowling trophy, your left over and go.

**

Zakuro sighs as she holds back Ryou’s hair. He is leaning over a trashcan in an alley a few blocks from his apartment. He is wearing a nice suit, and Zakuro is in her swishy bridesmaid dress. The bottle of wine they nicked from the reception, her clutch, her heels and his jacket are on the ground by her feet.

“I was supposed to get so drunk that I needed to puke in a trashcan.” Zakuro sighs, rubbing his temples. Another torrent lets loose, and she frowns.

“She looked good,” Ryou says, “she wasn’t supposed to look _that_ good.” He has been trying to get over Ichigo, but it appears that all his progress has been lost after six drinks.

“She looked like a cupcake.” Zakuro says. She still can’t believe that Ichigo is the girl Ryou can’t get over.

“A very pretty cupcake,” he says. He isn’t heaving anymore, but he wants to stare at his vomit, to see what he did.

“Stop telling yourself those kinds of things,” she says, “you’ll never move on otherwise.” Ryou lifts his head and looks at her.

“I am fascinated by your ability to be callous,” he deadpans, “I mean, you were in close proximity to the love of your life all day, and you didn’t even blink.” That’s because Zakuro is an expert at ignoring her own feelings.

“It’s a life skill, Ryou.” She drawls, running her fingers through his hair. She didn’t say a word to Minto, even during the pictures.

“I envy you, Zakuro,” Ryou says, “you never blink, even when life shits all over you.” She sighs and looks up at the night sky. There is so much light pollution that she can barely see the stars. The ones she can see are probably all satellites.

“It’s because I don’t blink.” Ryou laughs. Zakuro allows herself to smile, rubbing his back.

**

Zakuro meets with Bu-Ling a few days later. She watches her friend devour a stack of pancakes, chewing with her mouth open. She managed to get Ryou back to her apartment in one piece, and instead of drinking the bottle of wine, they had passed out in her bed. Bu-Ling called her the next day, but the hang over hit Zakuro so hard that it took her a few days to reply.

“You left before the party got started,” Bu-Ling smacks her lips. Zakuro blinks.

“The party started with Ryou and I were on drink three.” She replies. “Did I mention that he threw up in a garbage can on the way home?”

“You said that,” Bu-Ling says. “You were both messy.” Zakuro frowns. She had been collected the entire time. She didn’t look at Minto unless she had to. She also resents Ryou referring to Minto as the love of her life. It’s not a lie, but she refuses to admit that it is the truth. Zakuro is above that sort of thing. You’re thrown into life and then one day you are dead. That’s all there is to it.

“I kept it together,” Zakuro picks at her waffles. Bu-Ling tilts her head.

“You miss her,” Bu-Ling says, “you wouldn’t have left so early if it wasn’t so hard to be around her.” Zakuro plays with the bracelet on her wrist and looks down at the waffles. They are buttery and syrupy, but they aren’t making her feel full. They only remind her of how empty she is. 

“I guess,” Zakuro says, taking a large chunk of waffle and stuffing it into her mouth. Her cheeks bloat, and Bu-Ling nods.

“As long as you can admit it.” Bu-Ling shrugs, eating more of her pancake. The truth doesn’t set her free, but at least it had been acknowledged. “You should take some time to actually grieve.”

“Grieve?” Zakuro snorts, “Minto didn’t die.”

“It is still a loss.” Bu-Ling says. “She couldn’t look at you either. You could probably get her back if you wanted.” She looks up at Zakuro, her eyes hopeful. “You are going to do it, right?”

“Do what?” Zakuro asks, her mouth full. She swallows her food, and blinks at Bu-Ling’s hopeful expression.

“Get your girl back!” Bu-Ling says. “You know, like in the movies.”

“We don’t live in a movie,” Zakuro says, picking up her mug of coffee. “I’m not the kind of person who crawls back.”

“Who says you have to crawl?” Bu-Ling asks. “You just need to walk right over there and tell her how you really feel.”

“And how do I really feel?” Zakuro sighs. Bu-Ling frowns at her.

“You don’t need me to tell you.” She stabs her fork into a waffle on Zakuro’s plate. “You are too smart to act this stupid.”

“I’m not smart. I just have a PhD.” Zakuro sips her coffee, searching for a will to live. The truth is that she does miss Minto. Finding her bobby pins all around the apartment, the makeup she would leave behind, her little fits. She even misses the pills that stayed on Minto’s side of the bed.

“I’ll think about it,” she mumbles. Bu-Ling grins.

“That’s the spirit,” she rubs Zakuro’s arm. “As soon as you think of something, that means you’ll do it.” Zakuro sighs and sips her coffee. Bu-Ling is right. She will probably go over and try and win Minto back. That doesn’t mean she will do it the right way. _Fuck,_ she thinks, _what more could Minto want?_

Turns out, not that much but still more than Zakuro can give.

**

Minto sits curled in bathtub. Her arms are wrapped around her folded legs, her knees peeking out from the bubbles. She turns her head and looks up at Retasu, who has her foot propped on the lip of the bathtub. She is painting her nails a soft, pastel green. Too yellow to be seafoam, but only barely. Minto blinks at Retasu, who has a gentle expression on her face.

Retasu and Ichigo have taken it upon themselves to spend time with Minto. She wonders if they think that she will hurt herself. She wouldn’t, not over this. Losing Mickey was worse, because he is dead. Breaking up with Zakuro is awful but she got to say goodbye on her terms. Zakuro is still alive. Minto will survive her loss. It just hurts. Ballet, beauty, love; pain is something they all share. Pain with a purpose or an end, she can deal with. It’s the dull ache of depression or the acute pain of grieving the dead that she finds difficult to grapple with. Everything else is easy. 

She has been thinking about how she can change her life. Minto doesn’t want to stay in Tokyo. She doesn’t want to risk seeing Zakuro or be close by if she decides to try and apologize again. Minto misses France: the food, the art, the language. She misses living far away from here. She called her old boss last night, and they would happily take her back. Minto stretches herself under the water, pressing her hands onto her stomach.

“Retasu,” she says, “something needs to change.” Retasu looks up at her with gentle expression.

“What needs to change?” she replies. It’s typical, for her to ask open-ended questions that ostensibly give you control of the conversation, except, she can figure out what’s wrong by the direction you take.

“Everything.” Minto sighs. “I don’t think I’ll feel better if I stay here.” Minto leans her head back against the tub.

“Oh? Retasu says, inflecting to turn it into a question.

“I want to move back to France.” She says, “I spoke to my old boss. They’d take me back.” Retasu frowns at Minto.

“You only just came back,” she says quietly. Minto presses her lips together and looks away. Now that Ichigo is married, it’s more or less just the two of them. Berry leaves abroad, Ringo is always busy, and Bu-Ling and Zakuro were always better friends. If Minto leaves, they will Skype bi-weekly and text all the time. But it won’t be the same as being able to show up at each other’s apartments with a bottle of wine.

Minto wishes that she had spent more time with Retasu than with Zakuro, now that she knows how it ends, and that it would necessitate her leaving.

“I need to get away from here.” Minto sighs, “I need the space to get over it.”

“What if you are never over it?” Retasu asks in a small voice. Minto offers her a small smile.

“Then you can move to Paris and live with me,” she says. Retasu frowns.

“I don’t know the language.” She sighs, “and I have too many things keeping me here.” Minto sighs.

“I know.”

“Do you really need to leave the country to get away from her?” Retasu asks, “did she really do something that bad?” Minto groans and looks up at the ceiling. She has explained what happened numerous times. It feels like the lesson never takes.

“It’s not that she did anything. It’s that she did nothing, until it was too late.” She rubs her face with her hands. “Who the fuck shows up at a club wearing a silk scarf as a top and tells someone that they are missed?”

“Someone who is trying, very hard, to be vulnerable when no one has never shown them how to before,” Retasu says. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it another go?” Minto drops her hands from her face to glower at Retasu.

“Aren’t you supposed to be against toxic relationships?” she asks. Retasu sighs.

“It doesn’t sound like it was inherently toxic, so much as you and Zakuro had problems communicating.” Retasu shrugs. “All I’m saying is that it is salvageable.”

“Salvageable. Is that what I deserve?” Minto asks. Retasu blinks owlishly, letting Minto sit with her despair for a moment.

“Salvageable just means you have to put some work into it. All relationships require work.” Retasu says. “It’d be less work than leaving the country.”

“Fixing Zakuro isn’t the kind of work I want to do,” Minto sniffs.

“Who says that she is the one who needs to be fixed?” Retasu closes the bottle of nail polish. Minto has no come back, so she pouts as Retasu leaves the bathroom to make tea.

 _I’m already put together_ , she thinks. _I don’t need to change_.

**

Zakuro sits at her computer, frowning. The question of other people is more complex than the question of Minto. You can’t fall in love with people. You can love individuals, but more often than not, Zakuro wakes up thinking that humanity is a scourge. She doesn’t really believe it, but it is inarguably tempting.

But not a day goes by where Zakuro doesn’t wake up thinking of Minto, and none of her thoughts are negative. Her apartment is quiet, without Minto flipping through her magazines or walking around or making dry remarks. It’s strange, opening her closet and not seeing stupid Peter Pan collars or silk blouses or origami inspired clothes. No impractical stilettos or leather handbags. All of Minto’s tubes of blush and mascara are gone. Zakuro found a tube of Minto’s lip balm. She left it on her dresser, by her jewelry box. A memento. It’s cherry. Zakuro thinks about how it makes Minto taste.

She gets up and goes into her room and picks up the tube of lip balm. She unscrews the cap and squeezes out a little onto the pad of her pointer finger. Zakuro swipes it onto her lower lip, and she presses her lips together, rubbing them.

Zakuro used to thinking nothing of Minto. She was just a rich girl whose daddy funded her life. Minto was so useless as to be beneath contempt. But now, Zakuro finds herself angry with her own judgements.

She looks at herself in the mirror and runs her tongue along her upper lip. It doesn’t taste the same as it does on Minto. Nothing else will taste the same. Zakuro closes up the tube and sets it back on her dresser.

**

Seiji sits across from Minto, his head tilted in concern. She smiles at him. It’s been awhile since she made an expression like that, and he doubts that it could be for anything that he approves of. His sister has turned a corner, but it is just like her to switch gears when she finally finds success. She isn’t mercurial, so much as she likes to get in her own way. She wasn’t like this is as a kid. This is something adulthood did to her.

Minto taps her fingers on the tabletop, excited but nervous to tell Seiji of her plan.

“Seiji,” she hums, “I have great news.”

“Great news?” he asks. For him, ‘great news’ would be his sister coming back from wherever she had gone. He loves her, in all her forms, but Seiji still isn’t over the bright, spunky girl who was always dancing. He looks at the expression on Minto’s face, and finds it inside himself to smile.

“I’m moving back to Paris.” She smiles, “I spoke to my old boss, and I found an apartment.” She gushes. “I am going to go back and try again.” Seiji blinks.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Isn’t Paris where this all started?”

“It’s why I have to go back,” she says. “I need to go and make things different.” She conveniently withholds the fact that the thing that needs to be different isn’t the circumstance of her previous depression, but rather, the fact that she can’t live in the same city as Zakuro now that she knows that she is her soulmate. She needs a clean break, a neat amputation. Cut the cancer out.

“Minto,” he sighs, “this all sounds hasty and ill-planned.”

“Seiji,” she reaches for his hands, taking them in hers. “I need to leave.”

“Are you even ready?” he asks, “you are still figuring out your medication, and you have just settled here. Minto, you should stay.”

He looks into her eyes, and for a brief moment, he sees the girl who insisted that he attend her ballet recitals and who snuck pot into the house. There is a fire in there, that he hasn’t seen in a very long time.

“I might not be okay, but I will be.” She squeezes his hands. “Please, Seiji, I am going through something, and I need you to trust me.”

“You always make things sound like they are life or death.” He says, offering a small smile.

“It’s catastrophizing.” She smiles. “I started doing that when I turned twenty.” Minto bobs her head. “Do you trust me?” Seiji blinks at her, thinking about how he would like to answer this question.

“Yes,” he says. “I have always trusted you.” It’s true. Minto feels something flutter inside her, to hear that her brother trusts her.

“I’m going to be okay,” she says. “I’ll be the girl I used to be.” He looks down at her hands, and he thinks about all the time he spent wishing she was herself again. He mourns her old self, yes, but he doesn’t want her to restrict her growth to who she was before all the evil happened to her.

“Minto,” he says, “I only care about you. I want you to be happy.” He sighs, “I’m always going to miss who you were, but I love you. You, alive and well, is so much more important than you being someone you’re not to make me happy.” Seiji smiles. “I love you, and I trust you. I’ll still be worried, and you have to call me once a week to check in, but other than that…you’re an adult. I can’t make you stay.” Minto squeaks and gets up, only to throw herself at Seiji, pressing her cheek to his.

“Thank you,” she sighs, “thank you, Seiji.” His support means so much more to her than he could ever know.

“I’m your big brother,” he says, “I am always going to love you.”

“Promise?” she asks.

“Promise,” he says. She pulls back, and grins, with all her teeth.

**

Today, Bu-Ling buys the ice cream. She and Zakuro sit on a bench, looking at children playing. Bu-Ling is happy, licking up her strawberry ice cream with a smile.

“Man, how lucky are we to live in a world with ice cream,” she sighs. Zakuro snorts.

“As opposed to what?” she asks. Bu-Ling frowns, thinking.

“Living in the Warring States era could have been cool. Samurai, war, blood—the stuff historical dramas are built on.” Bu-Ling smiles brightly. Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“You know we would probably be born peasants, and that everyone would be dying, right?” Zakuro licks her ice cream. “The Warring States era wasn’t like _InuYasha_. There weren’t demons or magic. It was literally rival daimyo fighting for control over the country, just for power.”

“Well, lucky us, we don’t live in the Warring States era _and_ we have ice cream.” Bu-Ling bats her eyelashes. Zakuro licks up her ice cream.

“So, are you going to go win Minto back?” Bu-Ling asks in a sly voice. Zakuro gives her a stern look, making her giggle. “You’re totally thinking about it!”

“No,” Zakuro replies. Bu-Ling grins.

“Yes, you were.” She says in a sing-song voice. “I can tell because you didn’t use a pretentious word.” Zakuro narrows her eyes.

“I do not use pretentious words,” she says, “not with you.” She licks her ice cream.

“Stop side-stepping the main question,” Bu-Ling smiles, “so, how are you going to do it?”

“I’m trying to enjoy my ice cream.” Zakuro replies. Bu-Ling narrows her eyes, and pouts.

“Fine,” she says, “don’t ask for my advice, even though my entire career is seduction.” Zakuro turns and looks at the faux-stuck up expression on Bu-Ling’s face.

Zakuro smiles. “You know, you’re my best friend.” Bu-Ling beams back at Zakuro.

“I know,” she says, “someone has to remind you that life doesn’t suck.”

“The world isn’t quite a hellscape with you in it.” Zakuro smirks, “but only by a margin.” Bu-Ling rolls her eyes.

“There you go again, being a pretentious asshole.” Bu-Ling licks her ice cream. “You never learn,” she drawls.

“You’re right,” Zakuro says, “I am the biggest dummy.”

“Told you so,” Bu-Ling sticks out her tongue. Zakuro looks up at the sun and smiles.

**

Minto has been packing up her things all week. She is leaving the most important things, including Mickey’s ashes, at her family’s house. She is only taking two suitcases with her. She has been spending the night downloading all her books, movies and music to various hard drives. She is wearing a pair of shorts and a big sweater. Zakuro gave her the sweater. Minto chose to keep it, because it is comfortable, and as a reminder that their time together wasn’t a waste. She knows who her soulmate is. Not many people can say that.

Ichigo knows that Zakuro tried. She asked Minto why she didn’t take her back. _Isn’t that what you wanted?_ It’s a yes and a no. Minto wanted to be missed, but she also wanted to be told that she was loved. She wanted Zakuro to take her face in both hands and tell her how much she loves her. At this point, Minto knows that there is a very good chance that she wants it to work more than she actually wants to put in the effort into making it work. Their attraction was built on disharmony. If they were finally able to communicate effectively, Minto wonders if they would even like each other.

But they are soulmates. That doesn’t mean they’re perfect together. They are just cut from the same primordial being. Nothing less, nothing more. (Minto goes through cycles, where she thinks soulmates are significant to thinking they are inconsequential. Thanks to Zakuro, the latter view has been winning lately).

Minto hunches over her computer, watching a movie, when she hears a knock on the door. She hops off of her couch and pads over to the door. She doesn’t check the peephole first. Instinctively, she knows a murderer isn’t there. She unlocks the deadbolt and peeks out from the behind the door. Her face twists when she sees Zakuro standing there, her hands in her pockets and hair in a braid. Zakuro is chewing her lip. It is obvious that she hasn’t been sleeping.

“What are you doing here?” Minto asks, hiding behind the door. She doesn’t want Zakuro to have the satisfaction of seeing her in the sweater she gave Minto.

“How are you?” Zakuro asks. Minto scowls.

“Living.” She retorts. Zakuro shifts on her feet, looking down at the ground. Minto knows why she is here. Zakuro really wants her back. But the decision has been made, and Minto will stand by it. “I’m moving back to Paris.”

The statement thuds between them. Zakuro freezes and looks up at Minto. She looks hurt. Like Minto had slapped her across the face or told her that she didn’t love her anymore. Funny, Minto only knew that the latter would hurt Zakuro when she showed up her door tonight.

All Zakuro needed to do, this whole time, was show up. But she is too late.

It’s probably the saddest moment in their pathetic attempt at a relationship. “You just moved back to Tokyo.” Zakuro says in a flat voice. Minto words landed right between her eyes. It gives her vertigo, which she fights through.

“Because I don’t want to see you ever again.” Minto wants to say it in a mean voice, but the blow comes out soft. Zakuro crosses her arms and tries not to think about how much she wants to die. _This isn’t real, this isn’t real, you don’t want to die, you’re just thinking it to do deal with a flood of uncomfortable, actually, intolerable emotions that you’ve never experienced before_. It’s all simple, if you’re self-aware enough to realize that your head and heart can be in two different places about the same thing.

“I visit Paris.” It’s the best Zakuro can come up with. Minto frowns.

“Then I won’t say hi to you on the street.” She says, “I’ll act like you’re dead.”

“Why are you saying these things?” Zakuro asks, “You love me as much as I love you.” Minto’s eyes widen, and her mouth twitches. “Look, Minto, I came here to tell you that I know why you’re mad, and to tell you that I miss you, and I love you, and that you matter to me because you make me feel like a person.” Zakuro says it all in one gush. Minto has never heard her use run on sentences before.

But that doesn’t change anything. Minto has made a decision, and she is going to stick to it.

“Is this an apology?” she asks.

“Do you love me?” Zakuro asks. She feels desperate. _This must be how Minto felt_. She feels a deep shame that she let Minto feel this way. No one deserves this horrible feeling.

“Answer the question.” Minto replies in a terse voice. This rankles Zakuro. She should say _yes, this is an apology_. But she isn’t going to kowtow to Minto. _You’re a legend in your own mind_. Her father always told her that, claiming that her pride would be what gets her, in the end. _He was right about one thing_.

“Of sorts.”

“So, it’s an apology of sorts? After all this time?” Minto asks. Zakuro nods.

“It’s the best I can do,” she says. It won’t be enough. They both know it. Minto clenches her jaw, and her eyes are cold. There’s a lot that she could say, but she thinks it would be best to get straight to the point.

“Then go fuck yourself, Zakuro.” Minto closes the door and turns the deadbolt. She slides down to the floor, covering her face with her hands and trying not to think about how badly she wants to rip the door from its hinges and jump on Zakuro and tell her that everything is forgiven. Promises have been made; a lease has been signed. They can all be broken. But she can’t break them, not for _this_ , in all its ambiguous _this-ness_. Minto hopes that, one day soon, she will catch a break. A real one.

 _Welp_ , Zakuro thinks, _this is what I get for trying_. She leaves before Minto’s sobs become audible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second last chapter. I'm going to be sad when this is over, but I have to focus on finishing my MA thesis and the behemoth that is Storms. Feel free to leave a comment! I always appreciate them. 
> 
> Stay safe out there.


	8. Bangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end in a beginning.

“we were wild and fluorescent/ come home to my heart”

Lorde “Supercut”

She isn’t exactly counting the days, but it has been almost a year since Minto last saw Zakuro. A whole trip around the sun. Paris is beautiful in the summer, despite the tourists. Minto is tapping her foot as she stares at the bookshelf in front of her. She went to the bookstore to pick up a book she ordered. As she browses the philosophy section, she spots a familiar last name. Fujiwara is in small white letters along a mint blue spine. The book is entitled _To Love Another (Aimer un autre)_.

Minto takes the book off of the shelf. The cover is tasteful; mint blue, with an ink painting of a blue lorikeet on the cover. The bird is a collection of smudged shapes; if you look at it up close, you would have no idea what you were looking at. When she sees Zakuro’s name, she feels something in her rise. Not pain, exactly, but a profound sense of grief. This book exists at the cost of their relationship. Minto can’t help but resent it.

When she puts it back on the shelf, she turns the spine around so that it isn’t visible. There is only one copy on the shelf. Minto touches the pad of her pointer to the pages and runs it down the edge. It gives her a papercut, and her blood smears on the creamy plane. Minto frowns at herself. She picks the book up off the shelf and pays twenty euros for it.

Minto leaves the book on her desk. She doesn’t want to read it, but she couldn’t leave it behind when her actual blood had stained the pages. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t get past the epigraph. It’s a declaration, not a quote.

_I’m not cold._

**

Zakuro is packing her bag to go to Paris. It’s a big conference she is going to. The kind of conference that could put your name on the map. Ryou lies back on her bed, watching her pack her suitcase. His hands are behind is head, and he has a smug look on his face.

“Why do you look like that?” she asks, frowning. Ryou smirks.

“I’m thinking about the look on Minto’s face when she sees you in Paris,” he drawls. Zakuro frowns. Minto is still a sore topic.

“It’s a city of two point one million people.” Zakuro tucks her hair behind her ears. “I won’t see her.”

“You don’t know that,” Ryou drawls, “I mean, it’s kind of romantic, coming across your long-lost soulmate in the City of Love.” He grins. Zakuro throws a pair of clean panties in his face. Ryou crinkles his nose and lifts them off of his face.

They are sheer and black, with roses embroidered into them. Ryou holds them up to the light. “Are you packing sexy, expensive underwear just for fun?” Zakuro snatches them back.

“It makes me feel confident.” She snaps.

“Are you going to try and see her?” Ryou clucks, “what’s the worst that could happen?” Zakuro blinks at him. She sighs, putting her hands on her hips.

“She’s never going to talk to me again.” Zakuro says. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Never say never to fate or love,” Ryou says in a sing-song voice. Zakuro frowns and puts the underwear into her suitcase. Ryou smirks at the stony look on her face.

“ _Jamais_ ,” Zakuro says softly. Ryou smiles.

“That’s the attitude,” he says, flopping back down onto the bed. He refrains from pointing out that she only packs sexy underwear.

**

It happens on a busy main road. Zakuro is heading to the Louvre, and she sees Minto across the road. Minto is wearing a mint green slip dress. It’s raw silk. Zakuro knows because she took the dress off of Minto countless times. She is wearing white tennis shoes, something she never would have been caught dead in a year ago. Zakuro stands still and looks over at her. Minto’s eyes flick over to her, but she keeps walking.

Zakuro feels floaty after, like she is in a dream. She walks around the Louvre, but nothing registers. Her heart feels heavy in her chest, and she feels like a blank wall. No depth. She buys a baguette, and walks around eating it, ripping pieces off as she walks around. She thinks about Minto; their time together, their last horrible hour, her final stand.

When she gets back to the hotel, she drinks a third of the minibar.

**

Zakuro’s head feels fuzzy. There isn’t enough water in the world to re-hydrate her, and while she slept for nine hours, she doesn’t feel like she got any sleep. She presents her paper at ten in the morning. She gets a few stupid questions, but one university student asked a good one: “how is anything in your book ground-breaking?” Zakuro had smirked and replied that, like most academic works, the argument is nothing that literature and art hasn’t done with more complexity and care. A few of the older audience members frowned, but Zakuro doesn’t care. _Adults should die as soon as they reach the stage where they take themselves too seriously to think that their perspective is the only one that matters_.

When the talk is over, Zakuro stays behind, fielding a few questions. Some students want to talk to her, ask her about her book. It’s flattering to see the number of teenagers who decided to spend their day attending her talk. When the last person leaves the room, she turns to pack her laptop into its sleeve so that she can put it in her tote bag.

She swings the bag over her shoulder and turns around to see Minto standing there. She is wearing a navy dress, her feet in nude pumps. She smirks, holding her leather purse in front of her, head tilted. Minto still wears her cotton candy pink blush. Zakuro sticks her tongue into her cheek, making it bulge out.

In all honesty, Minto looks great. “Your talk was good.” She finally says. Zakuro frowns.

“I thought you were never going to talk to me again.” She replies.

“Someone needed to tell you that you look like you should smell like a minibar.” Minto says in a sing-song voice. “You’re hung over, I can tell. You were slow on the uptake. You’re lucky that you’re so smart, because the audience didn’t notice.” Zakuro doesn’t like this. She can tell that Minto is up to something.

“You walked past me.”

“When?” Minto asks.

“Yesterday.” Zakuro says, “you pretended that I didn’t exist.” Minto shrugs it off _,_ like _, what did you expect?_ “Why are you here?” Zakuro doesn’t have time for Minto’s antics. She wants to enjoy Paris before she returns to Tokyo. Spending time with Minto would be the opposite of enjoyable. She doesn’t need to listen to all the things she did wrong.

“I wanted to see you.” Minto says. “I think we should get lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Yes, we should go get lunch.” Minto says, “but you should change first. You look terrible.” Zakuro rolls her eyes.

“Well, we can’t be perfect.” She heads towards the door, and Minto follows her. Zakuro groans internally, realizing that Minto is going to insist that they get lunch. “Do you have a time and place in mind?” Minto smiles, pulling a piece of paper from her purse. Zakuro chooses to say nothing about the fact that she doesn’t give Zakuro a phone number. _Was I really that bad?_

“Here. Don’t be late.” Minto smiles, walking up ahead of Zakuro. “And change!” She calls back over her shoulder. Zakuro bites her lip, watching the playful expression on Minto’s face.

She isn’t ready for whatever Minto has planned, but she does, desperately, want to be in her orbit again. So, she decides to go.

**

Zakuro does change. She wears her black cigarette pants, and a navy-blue shirt that says “Suck My Dick” in white, block letters. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she is smoking a cigarette, waiting outside the door of the restaurant. She frowns as she blows out the smoke. She isn’t a smoker, but when meeting your ex in a foreign country, inviting cancer in seems like a reasonable response.

She thought the idea that anyone could fall in love with her was ridiculous. People don’t just love. There is always a motive, or an agenda. There is no such thing as unmotivated love. Every relationship has a goal, even if you pretend there isn’t one. Everyone has a reason for why they hang around. Zakuro mulls over this point, taking another drag, when she sees Minto walking towards her.

Minto doesn’t wave. She never has. Her preferred greeting is to simply fix her gaze onto you, saying hello when she gets close enough.

Apparently, she still holds Zakuro close in her heart, because she doesn’t bother greeting her. “You’ll get wrinkles around your mouth,” she says. Zakuro drops her cigarette and rubs it into the ground with her foot.

“I can’t be ugly to you,” Zakuro smirks, “wrinkles wouldn’t stop you.” She winks, and Minto gulps. It satisfies Zakuro, knowing that she still has an effect on her.

“Your looks don’t matter to me.” Minto sniffs. Zakuro shrugs, like, _sure_. Minto turns around and leads them into the restaurant. Zakuro watches her walk, and a sick thought occurs to her. She thinks of the time Minto bruised her knees for her, and Zakuro wishes it would happen again.

 _I guess I really am the bad guy_. Zakuro frowns to herself when she sees the little wings between Minto’s shoulder blades. She doesn’t like the idea of someone else putting their mouth to her wings.

**

Minto doesn’t know why she is doing this, not really. She doesn’t really want closure, and she doesn’t really think she has anything she needs to say to Zakuro. But when she saw Zakuro, something swelled up inside her, and it took everything not to walk over. She called Ryou, who laughed when she asked why Zakuro was in Paris, and then he gave her the conference details, completely unsolicited. Minto asked why, and she could hear his smirk on the phone. _You didn’t call to talk about the weather_. Minto grunted and hung up the phone, frowning when she heard Ryou’s laugh before it cut out. _Fuck you too_.

So, she went to the conference and sat in the back of the room, watching Zakuro talk and answer questions. She was hungover and slower than she otherwise would be, but Minto is still attracted to Zakuro. She will never not be beautiful, and every response, even the sarcastic ones, were elegant. _It’s not fair that you show up to this city, hungover, and you act like that_. Minto could tell that Zakuro was surprised to by Minto inviting her to lunch. Minto was too, but she does want to talk to Zakuro. It’s been over a year. She wants to try and be friends.

Berry is engaged. They are going to be in the same wedding party again. They need to get along.

Besides, what is more delightfully morbid than sitting down and doing a post-mortem examination on your failed relationship? Minto’s depression is in remission, but that doesn’t mean that she won’t dig her nails into the wound.

“I’m stable,” she says as Zakuro sits down.

“Okay,” Zakuro says, blinking.

“I just want you to know that this isn’t a cry for help.” Minto sits back in her chair, crossing her legs.

“Oh,” Zakuro frowns. She hadn’t even considered that was an option. “So, what is this?” Minto crosses her arms, thinking. A minute passes, before she speaks.

“I want to talk about what happened.” She replies. Zakuro shifts in her seat when she sees the sad look in her eyes.

“It didn’t work out,” Zakuro sighs. Minto frowns.

“You were right,” she says in a soft voice. “You always are.” Zakuro looks like she has something that she doesn’t want to swallow in her mouth.

“In the worst way possible,” she replies in a soft voice. Minto nods.

“Yeah.”

They sit over the dead thing between them, neither knowing what to say. Maybe there is nothing left. “I bought your book.” Minto admits, “I can’t read it, but I have it.”

“You don’t have to,” Zakuro says, “most of the claims are self-evident.” By this, Zakuro means that these are all things she should have known before. If she had, they wouldn’t be here now, like this. She could have spared them both the destruction of their relationship.

“You aren’t cold,” Minto says. “You loved me in as much as you are capable of love, but that’s because no one showed you how. You’re not innately cold.” Minto picks up a menu and scans it. She already knows what she is going to order. But she is nervous and wants something to do with her hands.

“You’ve changed,” Zakuro says in a small voice. “You’re not who you were.” Minto drops the menu down and gives Zakuro a hard look.

“Thanks.” Minto says. “Congratulations, you really matter to the kind of people you want to be like.”

“Who do I want to be like?” Zakuro asks.

“Academics,” Minto shrugs, “you know, people who think they are smarter than the rest of us.” Zakuro scowls, and Minto smiles. “Come on, we both know you hated the idea of me having standards for your behavior.”

“My behavior?” Zakuro asks, “I didn’t think that was a problem. I have excellent manners.”

“You’re rude,” Minto smiles, “you bullied me.”

“It’s not bullying if it is the truth,” Zakuro replies, picking up her own menu.

“You want to know where I’m working?” Minto asks. Zakuro looks up from her menu and shrugs.

“I am working at a university,” she says, “in administration.” Zakuro will admit, that is far less glamorous than she expected of Minto.

“And you enjoy it?” she asks. Minto nods.

“I get to help students,” she says, “I’m making a difference.” Zakuro snorts.

“You are so grossly Kafkaesque, and you can’t even appreciate what that means,” Zakuro looks back down at the menu.

“I’ve read Kafka,” Minto replies, “I too, am educated.”

“You are?” Zakuro asks. Minto puffs her cheeks. It’s like how it used to be.

They sit there, looking at each other. Zakuro smiles. “I missed this.” Minto rolls her eyes.

“Sure.”

“No, I am serious,” Zakuro says, “I really wish that it worked out.” Minto blinks, and then grins with all her teeth.

“It still could.”

Never say never to fate or love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending was supposed to be sadder, but I couldn't do that to Zakuro and Minto, so I left a door open for them. I hope you enjoyed this. Comments are appreciated, but really, I'm just happy knowing that this exists in it's final form.

**Author's Note:**

> Zakuro is right, this won't end well ("I like art" type girl is straight out of Kanye West's "Blame Game". I promise I will get to fixing typos--they make my eye twitch too. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
